Light's End

Chapter 7: Correlation

- 1 -

7:25 PM

Reflexes twitching, Remus's hand shot to his belt and produced his wand. No novice to battle, the werewolf swept his left hand widely, knocking over a dessert tray, sending treacle and pudding scattering all over the floor. He took a knee, the tray in front of him, his wand trained on Voldemort.

With textbook Auror training, Tonks and Moody both split away from Remus, wands out and taking up various defensive positions in the corner of the dinning hall, Tonks took position behind an ugly plant and Moody behind a large, body-sized vase. Snape, who seemed to be shaking with fear, stood next to Lupin, the most exposed of the four, his wand trained on Peter. He had little practical battle experience, and was facing his inner most demons at the moment. Remus didn't fault him for being afraid.

Voldemort sought no such cover, pulling his cowl away from his face, his red eyes the color of polished blood. The two slits that served as his nose puffed out and retracted - he was either agitated or out of breathe. Peter flocked to his master's side, his stubby, short wand in his metallic fist, facing Remus. He could see the fear in the fat man's eyes, he'd never beaten Sirius, James and him at anything. Lestrange twiddled her wand, training it on Tonks while Avery matched up with Moody. Narcissa had fallen away from the impending fight, either scared, wandless or a greater plan in mind, and had rushed out of the room.

The Dark Lord held is wand at either Snape or Remus - the werewolf couldn't be sure, but what he did know was that Voldemort outweighed the other three in the worth of 'considerable threat' and he knew it.

And there was a freeze. Remus suspected if he slung his curse at Peter, that would be the last action he ever took. The gathered Deatheaters were presumably waiting for their Lord's order. A thin, beaded sweat gathered on Remus's forehead - he wasn't afraid of the Killing Curse, nor was he scared of Voldemort. Death would come with a small measure of release and his transition would be quick and painless if it came down to it. When he reached the next life, Prongs and Padfoot would be waiting for them they would have a drink together for the first time since James died, sixteen years ago and talk about their past triumphs and not there latest upsets. Remus would find a sense of happiness that had left him, replacing the attitude that ran down his robes and appearance these long years ago.

"Well, isn't this a pickle?" hissed the Dark Lord, his words sounding arrogant, yet at the same time - strained? Strained, wondered Remus. Could Voldemort actually be afraid of them?

"Ain't it, Voldemort?" spat Moody back, finding his tongue faster than the rest of them. "Lotsa head's gonna be rollin' tonight, I can promise ya - yer good, but yer gonna bleed too."

"Correct," came the desert-dry reply, "You'll die, every last one of you, and possibly take my only loyal supporters with you - something I'd prefer not to happen at this point."

"My Lord," said Lestrange, her spidery tone laced with panic, "We are not afraid to die for you."

Voldemort glanced sidelong at her, "Silence."

That was the end of the matter.

"Well, what exactly do you propose?" asked Remus, unable to keep a small tremor from his hand, "We sit down, have a drink and talk about Quidditch?"

"A truce," came the answer, without any thought.

"Truce?" spat Tonks, though her face was whiter than her actions would suggest, "And we are supposed to trust you?"

Voldemort began to move forward, his wand finding Snape and Snape's wand finding him, though he held no fear or even respect of the Potion Master's skill based on the fact he was hardly even looking at him.

"I couldn't care less if you trusted me," said the Dark Lord, "However, we both want something, Dumbledore and I."

Remus remained silent, his mind spinning. It was nice to know there was a chance he'd get out of this one alive, however, the fact that Voldemort would spare them just like that was wishful thinking at best.

"I have plans, you see," His eyes fell on Remus, filled with such hatred that the werewolf was afraid he'd be the victim of a Killing Curse then and there. Yet, the former human kept moving, strolling in Tonks's direction. "They involve Hogwarts, how do you say... the way it is."

"Ah, the truth of this meetin's clear enough," barked Mad-Eye, "Feelin' a bit insecure knowin' that somethin' out there accomplished what yeh failed to do?"

Voldemort spun on him scowling, his robes flapping wide for a second with the fury of the motion. At once, the hate filled creature relaxed, however, his normal expression returned. "You could say that, Alastor." He stepped closer to him. "I am just as concerned about future rivals as you are and what holds Hogwarts, keeping Dumbledore at bay..." The Dark Lord trailed off, looking spiteful.

"... might be more powerful than you," filled in Remus.

Voldemort said nothing.

"What do you know about the Hogwarts take over?" asked Snape, speaking for the first time - to his credit, in a firm voice.

A blackened, forked tongue jutted from Voldemort's mouth, like a snake sniffing the air. His eyes fell on Severus. "Quid Pro Quo, traitor. I want to know where Dumbledore is now."

"We don't know," answered Tonks, too quickly. "And even if we did..."

"... you wouldn't tell me," Voldemort concluded. "Well, then, I'm sorry you feel that way. Leave now, or die."

Remus scoffed with disbelief. "You'd just let us go?"

"Yes."

"Why?" asked Snape.

"I have my reasons."

A tense beat passed between everyone. The Deatheaters still held their wands ready for battle, silent in the wake of their master. Given the not so inevitable outcome that Remus now saw before him, his mind widened. Instead of welcoming certain death as fearlessly as a knight, the possibility of escape weakened his resolve and made him more fearful. Remus still had much to live for - he had accepted many burdens in his life and planned to see his responsibilities though. If he threw away his life here, it would be a waste, plain and simple.

"Dumbledore be at the Ministry library, researchin' stuff," supplied Moody. "Quid Pro Quo, what do you know?"

"Think time length, Alastor," said Voldemort, now lowering his wand and folding his hands behind his back.

For the split second, Remus entertained the thought of throwing a Killing Curse at Voldemort. His extensive knowledge of the Dark Arts had led to an intimate understanding of the Unforgivables. It wouldn't be honorable, but it would save everyone much grief. Yet, something stayed his wand - he suspected that, whatever Voldemort was now, it couldn't be classified as mortal. While the Killing Curse was unblockable, would it even work on him? If it didn't work, his actions would seal the deaths of himself and his allies. That wasn't an acceptable risk.

"Time length?" asked Snape.

"Whatever has seized your believed Hogwarts needs time to put its plans into motions, or else they would not have gone through the effort of turning the school into a prison, now would they have?"

"What's the plan then? What does he need to stall for?" pressed Tonks, licking her lips, a timid note in her voice.

Voldemort sneered, glaring at Tonks like she were some sort of infant, but even that look had no small amount of hatred to it. After all, it was an infant who ended his reign. "Something more complicated then slaying those inside the school, I assure you."

"Do you have anything worth telling us?" asked Remus, forcing an annoyed tone.

Voldemort froze, as if considering whether or not he should strike Remus down for his disrespect. However, in the end, he must have decided against it, for he settled again.

"Tell Dumbledore that if he's looking for a way past the wards at Hogwarts, he is barking up the wrong tree," said Voldemort, a trace of bitterness in his tone. "I've spent many years of my life trying to find such a way - for lack of better words, Hogwarts's defense is perfect."

Remus believed him for some reason - if there was one person who had studied the defenses of Hogwarts with impossible vigor, it was Lord Voldemort.

"Why are you here tonight?" asked Voldemort, looking from Moody to Remus to Snape and back to Moody again.

"Dumbledore be wantin' to exhume her son - wants to examine him fer clues as to how he died," answered Moody. "What tree should Dumbledore BE barkin' up, then?"

Voldemort hissed like a snake, though meant no aggression by it. He seemed to just be considering things. "I suspect if Dumbledore looked hard enough, he might find a clue in Durmstrang as to who is doing this. There library on dark creatures and dark wizards is the finest in the known world. And, of course, I'm sure even you've seen the futility of assault upon Hogwarts. You're best to just give up your efforts to get in from the outside."

"But, what's the point?" demanded Tonks, looking frustrated. "If Dumbledore can't find a way into Hogwarts, what's the use of finding out who is doing it?"

"Useful information, see," said Avery, who's eyes were focused intensely on hers, his wand still in his hand, "For when the creature is done at Hogwarts and decides to move on."

"Silence," hissed the Dark Lord, and at once, the rat-like man fell quiet. He looked then to Tonks and tapped his pale white forehead with one of his half-foot long fingers. "I have a way of communicating any information Dumbledore learns that might stop this creature's plans to someone within. If Hogwarts is to have any chance, it will have to be done from the inside."

With that, the Dark Lord closed his eyes.

* * * * * *

7:35 PM

- 2 -

While the Slytherins were being massacred by the dozen well beneath the belly of Hogwarts, Harry was staring at the fire, his perception localized to one point in the flame. He was close, but felt no warmth from it. Anger, hatred and even fear had filled every part of him, consuming him with grief.

Then, to make matters worse, his scar erupted with pain. He bit his lip with the sudden shock and closed his eyes, blinded by a white light. Gripping his head did little to soften the sting, which was akin to someone chiseling his forehead open with a rock hammer. On a normal day, he might have been able to fight back against the pain - to force out the Dark Lord, as he could usually do while awake. But not today - today, with all the level of stress he had endured, he found the barriers around his mind so strained and weak that one single surprise attack shattered them.

The most distressing picture entered his mind, as the pain subsided. He was staring directly at Professor Lupin, who was crouched behind a desert table, Snape standing at his side, wand extended. He turned his head to the left, and to the right, seeing Tonks and Moody, crouched behind plants. They were inside an elegantly appointed room of some kind, though he couldn't see much more, and couldn't turn his head.

"Here are the terms," said Harry, glaring at each of those in front of him, "In exchange for feeding the information Dumbledore finds to Harry Potter, to stop whatever is doing this... I want the followers of mine who were captured in the Department of Mysteries released from their prison."

"I can't hardly believe this," said Remus, speaking in a forceful tone. "You want Dumbledore to free the scum who killed Sirius and... trust in your good nature to deliver the information to Harry Potter through his scar?"

Harry smirked and ran his long fingers across his chin, "Harry sees what I see now," He looked squarely at Snape, who was shaking his head with disgust. "You've done an amazing job teaching him Occlumency, traitor - he's become so bad at blocking his mind that I can open him up like a book, day or night."

"That wasn't my..." protested Snape, looking deeply miffed because of the scowls shot at him by the other members of the Order.

"I couldn't care less for your excuses - if my solution is correct, it may be the only thing that can save Hogwarts," sneered Harry. "Now, do we have a deal or not?"

"Forget it, Tommy," muttered Alastor, "Even if Dumbledore WANTED to agree, he isn't even a ministry official. How could he arrange for their release?"

Harry snickered - this night could very well prove to be a most fortunate night. "Well, seems to me that more people want Dumbledore as the new Minister of Magic than don't - seems like he could just accept the role within hours, bringing order to the Ministry... if he so chose, of course."

The vacant expressions on their faces showed Harry that he was right.

"Seems like Dumbledore's first order of business would be a prisoner exchange - a dozen Deatheaters for eight hundred students - that's almost 80 to 1... not a shabby deal."

Silence answered Harry's words. It was as though he was speaking nonsense, yet the Order members could find no obvious flaw in that reasoning. At last, Remus sighed, "I'll have to speak with Dumbledore on the matter," he replied.

"You have until midnight tonight," answered Harry. "Have Dumbledore send me his answer by owl to this address," Harry waved his wand in the air and a green strip of parchment shot from his wand, right to Remus. Harry knew exactly what was written on it - The Graveyard, Little Hangton, fifth headstone in the forth row. "To ensure your faithfulness, one of you will remain behind - should Dumbledore desire to catch himself one of my few remaining followers when they go to retrieve his message, he shall loose one of his. That condition is non-negotiable. Once my follower returns, I shall release his."

"Not happening," snapped Remus, "How do we know you won't kill whoever remains behind?"

"I've not killed you now," returned Harry, glaring at Remus, "That's your one assurance. I have just as much interest in seeing whatever has seized Hogwarts routed as you do," Harry then hissed, a surge of anger rushing through him, "And if Potter has thwarted me all these times, he might have a shot at this one too."

"Fine," barked Moody, stepping out from behind his plant. "Ye have yerself a deal - you kids get on out of here, n' ah'll remain behind."

"Alastor!" exclaimed Remus, and he opened his mouth to protest further.

"Bah," interrupted Moody, "I'm an old fart - you kids still 'ave yer lives ahead of ya," He glanced at Harry, "If he decides to get itchy with a Killing Curse, he wouldn't be taken many years from me, I'll tell ya right now. Besides, I'm an old dog, but I've still got a trick or two left. He won't be takin' me without a fight."

Harry smirked, knowing just how easy it would be to shut up the old fool here and now, forever. Yet, he had to keep him alive - at least for a while, as a sign of 'good faith', as hollow of a sentiment as that was.

"We came for one thing," said Remus, as Snape and Tonks began to withdraw, wands still out. "Narcissa's permission to exhume..."

"Granted," cut off Harry. "I speak for her, as I do all my followers."

"That's not good enough," answered Remus, "Dumbledore needs us to hear it from her... and from Lucius Malfoy."

As if on cue, Narcissa entered the room on cue - Harry turned his head, giving him a view of the gathered Death Eaters. One man he didn't know - Lestrange (how his body back at Hogwarts shivered when he remembered her) - Wormtail (his shiver turned to hot fury) and now Narcissa, moving hesitantly, her wand out.

"Narcissa, tell these men they are permitted to exhume your son's body."

Narcissa opened her mouth, as if to vehemently protest, but Harry surged with anger, slowly lifting his wand upon seeing the hint of protest. Disloyalty on any level had to be corrected with pain. Seeing this, she lowered her head so he couldn't see the defiance in her eyes. He saw it anyway, however.

"Very well," she answered, voice sloppy with grief.

"There," cooed Harry, turning back to the members of the Order, "Is that sufficient?"

Remus, Tonks and Snape looked unsure, as if torn between doing one thing and doing another. It was Moody's voice that spoke next, "Well go on now - get! You have the permission, and the longer we wait, the more risk gets put on those kiddies."

Not refusing the order, the three other members of the Order left, heading straight to Dumbledore to tell him what had transpired. Once they were gone, Harry drew out his wand from behind his back, training it on Moody with a grim sense of delight.

"I knew you'd volunteer for this, Alastor - you were always quite stupid."

Moody trained his wand on Voldemort and then proudly lowered it, "Go on then - have yer fun with yer curses. Wouldn't want to kill me by accident, however. If Dumbledore doesn't see me back after he agrees to help you, he might just try to find another way to help those kids."

"Crucio!" hissed Harry, feeling a surge of hatred pour from his soul, through his arm and out the end of his wand with invisible, paralytic force. Moody groaned in agony, his wand falling from his hand as he dropped to his knees. He didn't fall to the floor completely, however, and Harry scowled, bearing his teeth and intensifying the pain. Then, like a rider reigning a mount, Harry cut off the pain, leaving the old man to pant. He did enjoy the irony of his kneeling position.

"Dumbledore will know that I'm his only hope," hissed Harry, "And it won't matter what I do to you, Alastor."

"Then, I'll see ya in hell, Tommy," wheezed Alastor "Mad-Eye" Moody, as he resigned himself to his fate with neither plea nor tear.

The old man closed his normal eye in resignation, however, his large eye couldn't close - and it stared at him, solid, ironclad - defying. Harry began to distance himself from the whole encounter. Vivid details flashed before his eyes as he felt himself being pulled away. Like bait tied to a fishing hook, he was being reeled away. The last thing he heard was the hissing voice of Voldemort say "Crucio!" again.

Harry opened his eyes with a gasp and a cry. His fists grasped, his desperate flailing landing him two legs on each side of him. Concerned faces ringed him, staring down at him with identical gaping maws. Among these faces were Euan Abercrombie, who owned one of the legs Harry was grasping, and Colin, who owned the second.

"What's going on, Harry?" asked Parvati, who was staring down intently at him. "Are you all..."

Harry pulled himself up, using the two younger students and grasped his head. Among the thirty or so confused faces, he didn't find the face he was looking for. He pushed through the crowd, not offering a word to them. He had to find Hermione, and find her face.

When it was obvious she wasn't in the common room, he turned to Dean, who was the only sixth year male in the common room. "Where's Seamus?" He was keen enough to notice his absence as well, and he had a sneaking suspicion wherever Seamus was, Hermione would be too.

"I'm not sure," he answered, fumbling over his answer. "I suppose they could be at the top of the tower."

Wasting no time, Harry pushed passed Scotty and Gabriel, his two beaters who were about to ask him the same moronic question everyone seemed to be asking him tonight. No, he wasn't fucking all right. A student died because of him today, and he had just watched Mad-Eye Moody being tortured, left as a sacrificial lamb in favor of appeasing the Dark Lord.

He raced up the stairs as fast as his legs could carry him. He found the room that Seamus and Hermione had no doubt confiscated and was about to knock when he thought he heard a sound that chilled him to the bones. Despite all he had just experienced, it froze him to the floor, his fist suspended a foot from the door, never touching down to knock.

It had been a feminine moan... just like the one he had heard from Dudley's room, when him and Piers would watch that movie entitled Assablanca.

Feeling totally confused and light-headed, Harry just shook his head and walked back down the stairs. How could Hermione and Seamus do something like this... at a time like this. His expression got darker by the minute. Ron's words from earlier haunted him at that moment, when he really didn't want them to.

"It's not the same. She's now Seamus's friend, and couldn't care less about us. I mean, she didn't even offer to come with us today."

Harry couldn't help but feel trapped with nowhere to turn. Who could he talk to now? Not Ron... no, he had made his feelings clear about where they stood an hour or two ago. Not Hermione or Seamus, for obvious reasons... not Dean - what sort of comfort would he get from him? He was twice as scared as Harry was. Certainly not Colin... the boy who ran away as fast as he could.

Who could he talk to? Who could he confide in? Ginny? ... no, not Ginny. She'd always be the little sister he never had, especially after their experience in the Department of Mysteries. Even if she had recovered from her crushy infatuation with him, the remnants were still there. When she talked to him, she talked up to him... and he talked down to her.

If only Neville were here, Harry thought, as he re-entered the Common Room again, Neville, by a stroke of different luck, could have been the Boy Who Lived and not me. Neville, who had lived with me for five years, never took any of my crap seriously, and had stood his ground with me to the bitter end... Sirius's bitter end...

He would have been a person Harry could have talked to. But he was in Durmstrang, on the outside, and would never speak to Harry again... at least, until this problem was solved, if it could be solved.

There was no one left that Harry could confide in; that and that alone, was probably the hardest part of this whole ordeal.

* * * * * *

- 3 -

12:00 AM (8:00 PM GMT)

Neville Longbottom would never have guessed that Harry wanted to speak to him more than anyone else on the face of the planet. Had he known, he'd have been confused as to why. For all that the wayward Hogwarts student knew, Harry, Ron and Hermione were still best friends - a triangle that had no room for a fourth end. How interesting and scary it would have been for him to learn of all the chaos that had happened at Hogwarts, so early in the year.

The roar of the crowds was just one of many reason why Neville loved Quidditch. There were other reasons, like the freedom to talk with friends and the ability to let loose once every few months. It was a sort of release from his daily weekend life of sleeping late, (though naturally, he had no objections to doing that) playing with Trevor, and eating a hardy breakfast. Nothing could quite match up to the level of excitement a Quidditch game, even if he was just watching from the sidelines. Had he any proficiency in flying, he'd be up there right now - how could he even conceive of not soaring like an eagle and giving it his all? But, even sitting in the crowd of Durmstrang students, he felt like he belonged - even if it was at midnight.

The Durmstrang Quidditch pitch was set into a glacier of ice, made as soft as a bed by several hexes before the game to insure no brutal injuries from falling. The stadium was a breath away from celestial, making magnificent with flying colors. Held up by columns of illuminated ice, the arena seating was forged from countless indigo soapstone boulders, providing a luxury box seating effect. Each section was capable of seating twelve students, and Durmstrang boasted a great number of students - easily three times the number that attended Hogwarts. While Hogwarts accommodated the students of Great Britain, Durmstrang, based on the northern most tip of Norway where the sun shined for but five hours a day, accommodated most of Russia and half of the mainland of Europe: from Germany eastward, to Hungary and the other fingers of Europe - Finland and Sweden included.

Warmed by an enchantment placed on the arena (good thing too - negative thirty degrees was rather chilly), Neville was perfectly comfortable. The fourteen players Durmstrang teams members had kicked off for the Friday Night game and the search for the snitch was well under way.

"Which team do you want to win?" asked the boy next to him, his suitemate named Heinrick. He spoke in Latin, the universal language shared by all those who studied at Durmstrang. Neville had spent most of his summer reviewing the language; within a week or two, he was speaking it as fluently as anyone in Durmstrang.

Neville shrugged. He didn't really care who win - he had little loyalty to any of the Durmstrang teams. "It does not really matter to me," he said stiffly - his grasp of the language was good, but he was limited to speaking very proper Latin. Two chasers zipped past their box, one clad in robes as black as midnight and the other in green robes, looking much like the Slytherin team. "But, I shall pick the black team," Neville added, correcting himself. Might as well stay loyal to the Hogwarts spirit.

Heinrick gave a reserved nod. It was safe to say Neville liked him, for he was one of those types of people that were hard to dislike. He was a soft looking boy a few inches shorter and slimmer with light-brown hair and sparkling gray eyes. Hailing from Germany, he had been accepted to Durmstrang against his will. He had wished to attend Beauxbatons, but his father had denied him his request on the ground that the 'ze French ver to busy powdering zer noses to teach.'

"My brother is on the Lords," said Heinrick, pointing to black team's goal. "He is the one playing Keeper."

Neville put his hand up to his eyes to block out the glare from a pillar of ice directly across the way that was flashing angry white light into his eyes. While he couldn't make out the individual people, he could see the score. It seemed as though the Lords were dominating the game. Only five minutes had gone by and already the green keeper had blotched three saves.

"Why do they play Quidditch games in the night?" asked Neville, who stifled a yawn. This was already the fourth game of the season - had this been Hogwarts, the season would be near its end, seeing as how there were only six games a season. Durmstrang, however, had the luxury of not being divided into Houses as Hogwarts was, but rather by Orders, chosen by the students. In place of a Sorting Hat was a golden crown called the Optimatrix - it was placed over the head of any potential student, and anywhere from one to three gems implanted into the six prongs of the crown went off, suggesting to the student where he should study his area of expertise. Three gems on Neville's crown had gone off - Agate, Amber and Aquamarine, suggesting he was equally proficient in the Dark Arts, Herbology and Charms (which had come as a shocker to him, seeing as how he had never been a great Charms student, until Heinrick had explained that much of Charms in Durmstrang were spells that helped defend against the dark arts - then it made sense. They had no formal course in 'defense against the dark arts')

Heinrick looked confused at Neville's question, "Hogwarts doesn't have night games?"

The crowd around them went up in a cheer when the Lords scored. Heinrick clapped, and Neville went long with it just to be polite. The craziness and energy that permeated a game at Hogwarts was absent in this box, though all around them, younger students cheered, hooted and hollered. For Neville, it was a change - most games at Hogwarts were crazy, after all, when each team only played three times a year, it was a cause for great energy. Here at Durmstrang, Quidditch was not an afternoon sport but rather a reflection of talent, potential and an application of will power in a very practical way. A much greater percentage of students who became Quidditch stars in the future originated from Durmstrang than from Hogwarts.

Just then, both Seekers ripped by, flying with uncanny speed, just feet above Neville's head, blowing fierce turbulence through his short, brown hair.

"And it's the Snitch!" cried the commentator, her voice blaring.

Even Nevelle's box rose and watched with anticipation as a speck of gold shot down to the frozen glacier surface. Both seekers pulled into a Wronski feint, gunning for the smooth, white surface.

"Go Rondinofski!" cried Heinrick, slipping to German for a moment, cheering on the Lord's seeker. Marissa Alucard, the girl next to Neville, seconded the call, and soon, even this box was cheering. The game slowed to a crawl as the Lords and the Slytherin colored team watched their two seekers, digging deep. By now, the score was ninety-to thirty - a victory for either team would be the end result of the snitch race.

A forceful tap on the shawl of his black, Durmstrang robe distracted Neville from the game. Unlike Hogwarts robes, Durmstrang robes were much more fashionable - yet at the same time, much more uncomfortable. The collar of the robe rode right up Neville's face, giving him the look of a turtle with its head half-out of its shell. It was bulkier, with a lair of black satin over warm fur lining to help keep him warm in the oh so drafty Durmstrang castle. A final shawl made of a strange type of magical silk covered his shoulders, keeping additional heat in his robe, as well is looking outright cool. It was a reflective substance giving his upper chest the appearance of a black mirror. Had he been dressed in Hogwarts robes, he'd have been frozen by now - it was a balmy day when the castle went above fifty degrees, and it was more than typical to see ones frosty breath at most times. It had taken some getting used to, and a trip or two to the Medical Ward to banish a cold that had sprung up on him in the chilly nights.

"Mr. Longbottom?" asked a thick, feminine voice from behind.

Both him and Heinrick turned to see Bertha Dezdemorra, the Deputy Headmistress of Durmstrang. She was a beefy woman from the neck down, giving her the appearance of a Russian beat farmer, but from the neck up, she looked like a skull, a nose and a pair of mismatching eyes - one yellow, one red. Her skin was stretched to near breaking point over her face and her nose seemed as though it was glued on poorly, slanting to the left.

"Yeh-yes?" stammered Neville - whenever he looked upon her, he was reminded of Professor Moody, and he loathed even thinking about him.

"You have a few visitors from home."

Neville blinked, caught off guard, "Visitors? Who?"

Professor Dezdemorra gave him one of those appraising looks - head cocked to one side and eyes staring down the shaft of her uneven nose. "They didn't tell you they were coming?"

"N-no, Madam," answered Neville, feeling Heinrick's questioning eyes on him.

"Well, they claim to be your family - your grandfather, your two uncles and older sister."

Neville mouthed the words, scratching his head with extreme confusion. He had no grandfather left alive, only one uncle, and no siblings. He grew suspicious and was about to tell her that whoever was visiting him was lying about the whole thing. For some reason, however, he held his tongue.

"Please, take me to them," said Neville, rising from his seat.

"But, Nev, I thought you said your grandfather was d-,"

"SICK!" exclaimed Neville, glancing down to Heinrick, who was wearing an expression of doubt. His voice made both of them jump, "Yes, sick. I told you he was sick, but he must obviously be better - say why don't you come meet him with me?"

Neville wasn't sure of what made him invite Heinrick along, but the boy didn't think about it for a moment and rose. Professor Dezdemorra huffed, probably not believing him, but that was all right. After all, it wasn't him that she'd get mad at. It would be the people who lied to her about who they were, if they turned out to be liars. But, Neville had to go with his gut instinct on this one. He'd recognize them at once, he decided, and if he didn't, it was probably important.

And so, Neville and Heinrick said their good-byes to the other fans and descended down the spiraling staircase behind their boulder, taking themselves down the icy marble column and onto the snowy ground outside the Quidditch arena. Once Neville stepped outside of the staircase, the full force of the cold hit him like a thousand pins stabbing him on his face. Wasting no time, Neville fished into the pocket of his robes and pulled a wool cap over his head. Heinrick and Professor Dezdemorra looked unruffled by the cold, their bear heads exposed to the driving, sub-zero temperature. Neville wondered how long it had taken them to get used to the freezing cold.

They trudged through the thick, frozen snow, Neville's leather boots pressing into the first layer of frost with a sheer crunch that left its echoing impression in the windswept air. Sparse snowflakes drove into Neville's rosy cheeks, numbing his face in seconds. After what seemed like an hour, they made their way up the slick steps of Durmstrang castle. If Hogwarts was impressive, Durmstrang was enormous. Easily three times bigger than Hogwarts, it sat on its own plateau, raised high above the barren, surrounding land. Ancient spires over ten stories high towered over their heads and to walk around the perimeter could take the better part of a half-hour. To the north was the Arctic Ocean - water so cold it could steal the life of a person in seconds. In all other directions, there was nothing but flat, empty wastelands, for little could survive in the northernmost stretch of Europe. It was a dark blotch on a perfect, white landscape and even Neville Longbottom, who was used to being a social outcast, felt the throes of complete isolation. Durmstrang castle just depressed the hell out of him.

They stepped through the main doors of the castle into the dimly lit yet massive parlor. They were given a teasing amount of reprieve from the icy chill of the air outside. While their breath still hung in the air, it was nothing compared to the level of discomfort outdoors and Neville couldn't help but feel warm. He lost himself in a fantasy of the Gryffindor common room. Until a month at Durmstrang, he'd never appreciated the beautiful simplicity of lounging by an open fire, book in hand, wearing little more than light pajamas. If anything, the common room had always been too warm for Neville's tastes. Cold weather was so much better - if ya got too cold, you could always put something on. There's only so much you can take off in hot weather.

If there was one thing Durmstrang lost to Hogwarts was a sense of extravagance. As big as the castle was, it was bone-dry empty. No ghosts wandered the corridors, nor did any tapestries adorn the walls. It was barren, cold-hard stonework, earthen and without polish, showing the cold-hard truth of Durmstrang castle. It wasn't a place of luxury or squander. Born a castle more than a millennia ago, it was a bastion of strength with little costume. Always gloomy, always to the bone, Neville would look at the furnishings of Hogwarts in a new light when he returned in two months or so.

The deformed professor led Neville into a room near the Mess Hall - a room three times as large and three times as homely as the Great Hall at Hogwarts - and closed the door behind them. When Neville saw the gathered faces, he performed a double take. Seated at a small table for six was an older wizard Neville didn't recognize. Clad in dirty brown robes and wearing no facial hair whatsoever on his pinkish flesh, he carried his age on the wrinkles beneath his eyes. At his sides were two unmistakable wizards - one that gave Neville the chills. Grimfaced as always, Professor Snape stared at him with nothing short of contempt, his face telling Neville that whatever was happening here was not his idea and against his will. The other was Remus Lupin, his third year Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, in addition to his rescuer a year ago in the Department of Mysteries. Fourthly was a witch he knew by sight but not by name - another one of the rescuers in the Department.

"I trust I can leave you be, Mr. Longbottom?" asked Professor Dezdemorra, her face caught in a very large scowl - it was no secret she hated escorting duties.

"Y-yes," stammered Neville, his eyes locked with Snape's. "I know them."

A breath later, the Professor was gone, leaving Neville alone with his greatest fear, his best teacher, a neon-green haired woman and the unknown stranger - with only Heinrick's questioning glances to keep him company.

"Hello, Neville," rasped the hairless stranger, in an unmistakable voice. Instinctively, Neville's eyes went to the man, searching his light blue eyes for the knowing twinkle he would find there. As good as the disguise was, he couldn't hid it - though, Neville wasn't sure he was trying to.

"Professor Dumbledore?" asked Neville, his voice leaping an octave.

"The Headmaster of Hogwarts?" said Heinrick in Latin, mirroring Neville's disbelief.

As soon as he said it, Dumbledore's image shift into how Neville remembered him - red robes and a long beard down to his chest. Everyone else remained silent as Dumbledore indicated the two remaining chairs and folded his weathered hands upon the table.

"Who is your friend, Neville?" asked Dumbledore, his tone kind and inquisitive.

"Heinrick Romacov," said Neville, "My suitemate."

Heinrick didn't speak English, and could only look at Neville in this conversation. He must have heard his name, however, for he sat up at attention and gave the Headmaster a curt nod.

"Ah," said Dumbledore, his kind smile sagging a bit. "I'm certain you must be wondering why we are here."

Neville didn't say anything, for to pose a direct question to Dumbledore, questioning his reasons would be just... weird.

"You have not likely heard that a tragedy has struck Hogwarts," Dumbledore went on, looking much older than Neville ever remembered. "The school has been sealed off, and all the students within are being held prisoner."

Wait... what-huh? Neville's jaw dropped and his face went aghast, like he had just hugged a frost wraith. He looked to Snape - the grim-faced Professor nodded, a scowl planted on his face.

"We need your help, Neville," said Dumbledore, between the eyes. "Only students and professors of Durmstrang are allowed to study at the Durmstrang library, and I fear they are quite unreasonable about that restriction."

Neville felt the blood pound against his face. Dumbledore needed a favor... from him?

"The favor I must ask of you, Mr. Longbottom, is to search the Durmstrang library for information about the undead - more in particular, vampires and raptors."

Raptors, wondered Neville, his brows furrowing. "What are those?" he blurted out, scratching his head.

"Vampire wizards, Neville," explained Professor Lupin, leaning forward. "They were banished from Great Britain in 1550 after the Second Goblin Revolution, where the Goblins allegedly employed them to fight the forces of Faloric Gaterspan - nearly turned the battle in favor of evil."

A slight tremor ran down Neville's hand - he was not a good researcher, especially when under pressure. How did Dumbledore expect him to do this?

"I-I'll do what I can," he stammered, "But... I'm not good at research."

It was now Snape's turn. He leaned forward, "Of course you aren't, Mr. Longbottom - this is why I'm staying here as your personal tutor."

"WHAT?" gasped Neville, his heart leaping into his throat.

"Professor Snape will assist you," answered Professor Dumbledore.

Snape also didn't seem pleased about this, but he was nowhere as afraid as Neville was. "But, Professor - if only students and faculty of Durmstrang are allowed in..."

"... Professor Snape is a personal friend of the Potions Master here," interrupted Dumbledore. "So long as the Headmaster here suspects Professor Snape is working with the local Potions Master on a project, he is considered a Durmstrang Professor."

"Which I shall do," muttered Snape, "However, I shall devote most of my attention to my research, but it is too much work for me to handle alone." Snape looked baleful. "Which is why you and your ... friend... would be something of a help."

Neville glanced at Heinrick, who looked lost. Seeing as how the conversation was in English, Heinrick hadn't understood a single word. With a few quick sentences, Neville caught him up to speed. The soft looking boy looked thoughtful, his wide gray eyes filled with excitement.

"I'd be thrilled to do such a service for a wizard as great as Albus Dumbledore!" Heinrick exclaimed. "You know I'm good at research, Nev."

Dumbledore smiled kindly and spoke, this time in Latin, "And I thank you for your help as well... Heinrick was it?" When the boy nodded, Dumbledore looked squarely at both boys, "Now, I must impress upon you the seriousness of this situation. Outside yourselves and Professor Snape, you must not tell anyone the danger Hogwarts is in."

"Why not?" asked Neville, though he regretted it at once - challenging Dumbledore's wisdom was not a smart move.

"Think, Mr. Longbottom - I know it hurts," muttered Snape, "If Durmstrang learns of Hogwart's situation, its quite possible the school would close until this crisis is averted - Durmstrang's defenses are hardly as formidable as Hogwarts."

Even when asking a favor, Professor Snape was nothing but savage to him. Did Snape really dislike him so much because of his so-called incompetence? Was that really the simple thing that guided Snape through the path of hatred and anger? Or did he not hate him, and just not respect him at all.

A part of Neville that had only recently started to take shape made him glare long and hard at Snape. He had to do something he'd never done before in his life and never dreamed of it, and he had to do it now.

"I'm not going to help you unless you ask me nicely."

It was a completely idle bluff - he would never turn down a request for help by Dumbledore to research things that might save his friends back at Hogwarts. He wanted this token, however, for his own pride, as small a thing as it was.

Snape looked as though he had been slapped, and almost recoiled in a most immature manner, looking first at Dumbledore, who looked at Snape with a knowing look that told him he was getting no help from him. Then he looked to the woman next to him, who fired him a reproachful look. Only Remus spoke out of all those on the other side of the table.

"It's a fair deal, Severus."

Snape, looking as though he were about to start throwing up pythons, stick Neville on a skillet and cook him to plump, tender brown, said in a very dry voice. "Mr. Longbottom, will you please help us..."

Neville nodded, unable to form a reply. He knew, sometime down the road, he was going to regret this knock on Professor Snape. For the first time in his life, he had one up on Snape, and Snape didn't like to be beaten down by anyone.

But for now, he felt damn good.

"Then, let's get to it," said the woman, clapping loudly.

* * * * * *

- 4 -

10:10 PM

While she was unaware of what had befallen the Slytherins, or what deals Dumbledore had struck up with the Dark Lord, Lisa Turpin had plenty of things to worry about for tonight. She had just pulled her three-hour duty, guarding the portrait with about thirty others, and had been relieved by Luna and a few others. They had no way of knowing it, but the Ravenclaws, who were seeing the school's situation as little more than a high stakes problem that needed to be solved for classes, were faring the best of all. They kept their minds busy, reading what they could, talking about the signs they had, as well as just showing support for each other. The younger Ravenclaw students helped the older ones, picking out books from their common room library (a perk only the faithful of Rowena were entitled to), and even doing a bit of light research themselves. The common pit of information, which had been set at one of the middle tables, was where the seventh year students, as well as Padma and Anthony, debated possible defenses and assaults of the possible monster, or being, that was causing this problem.

Lisa, however, had to get away from it all. She found her way up to boy's sixth year dormitories. The door was wide opened, and she entered without knocking. Only Terry was here, recuperating the lasting effects of his concussion. It had been a really nasty hemorrhage and could have proven fatal if it weren't for the efforts of Cho Chang and Audrey Spanning. Now, with just a large patch of gauze over his left ear and a few cuts on his angular face, he was going to be just fine tomorrow.

He was sitting up on his bed, one hand holding a quill, and the other balanced in the middle of a book he was reading and taking notes from. His glasses had never been found and were presumed lost down in the dungeon, however, he was capable of reading just fine without them. Her was not wearing much in the way of clothes, and the covers around his midsection hinted at the fact he might be naked, even if she was sure he wasn't. Nevertheless, it was a cause for her to blush.

Picking up on her discomfort, Terry reached down to the other side of his bed and pulled on a plain white t-shirt. "Fever was burning me up," he said offhandedly, as if feeling the need to explain his exposure to her.

"Oh, you d-didn't have to..." Lisa replied hastily.

Terry smiled faintly, in his reserved, lukewarm way, "Don't worry about it. Cho said it'll be gone by tomorrow."

Lisa sat down on the foot of his bed, unable to help but feel a little uncomfortable. This had been the first time she had approached him since he had surprised her in the common room with a kiss. It was quite awkward.

"Feeling better then, I take it?"

Terry nodded, "Tip-top - save for the big canyon in my skull."

But his tone wasn't sarcastic. After knowing him for more than five years, she had become good at reading him. Most had a hard time, as his pitches didn't change too much when he was conveying emotion - probably why a lot of people thought he didn't have any feelings. His tone was amused, if anything, light-hearted. After the recent tragedies and everyone's dour mood, it was good to see someone in good spirits even if she didn't understand why.

"Yeah, you needed a good bump on your head," said Lisa, through a series of giggles.

Terry smiled in that faint way and laid back into his two pillows. They had been stacked upright for support while he was reading, "So, what are the think tanks coming up with?"

Lisa shrugged, "Nothing, really. Sure, could be a displacer beast... but for every fact that points to it, there's another that doesn't. Besides, I don't think a displacer beast could have gotten into the school."

Terry nodded and just sighed, "I assumed as much."

A moment of tense silence passed between the two. No matter how hard she tried to keep her mind on the subject, however, it always wandered back to the kiss in the common room. It was like it had its own mental gravitational pull; all she could do was jump away from it for moments at a time before it pulled her back in.

"Look, Lisa..."

"Look, Terry..."

They had both begun at the same time and were grateful for that, for they each stopped and began to laugh, feeling a bit more comfortable.

"Go ahead, Terry," said Lisa, after they stopped laughing.

Terry nodded and licked his dry lips, "I... shouldn't have kissed you. I'm sorry. I was just sorta messed up from Malfoy's funeral, you know? And, I don't know what I was thinking. Can we just forget it happened and go on as friends?"

But Lisa was already shaking her head, "No, Terry... no, don't be sorry. I've just been blind for the last few months. I should have noticed that something was happening between us." She looked earnestly into his eyes, "I'm not sorry it happened."

"You aren't?" asked Terry, his eyes widening a bit. He had such long eyelashes, Lisa noted arbitrarily.

Lisa shook her head and smiled - she did have a great smile. She laid down beside him, over the covers. Terry turned his head to meet her eyes. While usually low on confidence, Lisa playfully poked his cheek with her finger, "No, I'm not... I'm really not. If you hadn't done it, I don't think I'd ever have the courage to."

Terry reached up and took her hand in his, "You think it could lead to something in the future?"

Lisa used her second hand to sandwich Terry's hand. "I don't know," said Lisa, "But, the way its looking now, we might not have future."

Terry retracted his hand, his face tightening a bit. When he spoke, it was in a tense, dark voice, "No," said Terry, "We have a future, Lisa. We'll get out of here - we'll survive, as long as we are together." He spoke in all seriousness, "We just have to work together - all of us. I've made a decision myself."

Lisa was a bit taken aback by Terry's conviction, but didn't shrink away. In fact, it turned her on in the most primitive levels. Despite all the death that was going on around them, she felt totally safe while next to Terry.

"Tomorrow," he continued, "I'm going to talk to Harry Potter - I'm going to tell him what he did wasn't wrong, but if he's not strong enough to continue leading the D.A, I'm going to take his place."

Lisa's eyes widened. Of all the things she had expected him to say, this was far from it.

"What?" she exclaimed. While she loved Terry deeply, the thought of him leading the D.A just didn't seem right. Maybe she had some loyalty to Harry, but Lisa suspected it had to do with Terry's inexperience. He was great magic-user, no doubt about that, but if half the things that Harry had supposedly went through were fake, he'd still outclass Terry in experience by ten times. No, as capable as Terry was, he wouldn't be able to fill the shoes of Harry Potter.

Terry looked with all sincerity to Lisa, "We need a strong person to lead us, now that all semblance of authority has been gone. After... you know... after Justin died, Luna told me she was afraid Harry was coming apart at the seams."

Lisa sighed and looked into Terry's honest eyes. There was no desire for this burden in those deep, brown pupils - she commended him for that much. If Harry honestly couldn't handle it, Terry would step up to be a leader and accept the burden. In no way would he push for it.

"Give Harry a chance," said Lisa, softly, "Tomorrow, he'll be a leader again."

Terry looked a bit wounded even if his voice didn't change, "You don't think I could do as good of a job, huh?"

There was no accusation, just grim acceptance. Lisa leaned forward and pecked his nose, just because that was the only part of him she could reach without wiggling on the bed and looking ridiculous, "No," she replied, "You can't."

Terry just nodded. This was the sort of honesty they could share between themselves. Lisa knew Terry understood that he was no Harry Potter, and if things went bad enough and Terry needed to take over the D.A, there would be no hope for any of them.

He ran his hand down hand down her arm and pushed closer to her. If Lisa had been under the covers, they'd have been touching bodies. There faces were but inches apart. Lisa felt her breath going cold in her lungs as energy began to fill every part of her body.

"You're right, like always," whispered Terry, a simple smirk crossing his face.

Lisa giggled softly, "Actually, this is a pleasant first. You're the one who's always right."

Terry slid his head across the pillow, closing the rest of the distance between them. Just before their lips locked, Lisa thought she heard him murmur something...

"Details..."

This time, there were no surprises or indecision. She reached out gently and caressed his cheek while their lips pushed together, softly at first, then harder, as if they were both rushing for something they had wanted to do for so long. Caught up in the moment, Lisa had slid under the covers and pressed herself fully against his body. He was wearing pajama bottoms, as she expected, however that did little to stop her from feeling his sexual arousal. She, too, was very hot - and she didn't want to stop at just kissing.

Her sentiment seemed to be shared by Terry, who broke apart his kiss for just a moment to breathe out a simple question, "Do you... really want to go all the way?" he asked, in between pants. He sounded nervous.

She found no reason to say no to anything. Perhaps it was all the tension and suspense of waiting in the dark for the killer to strike, but what good was it to stop here at just kissing. Tomorrow, they could all be dead... and if not tomorrow, then the day after. What reason did she have for saying no?

"Yes," she said, and, with the skills of a neophyte, proceeded to remove Terry's shirt. He didn't fight her, but she felt him shiver once, like he were cold, as she pulled his shirt off over his head and tossed it to the side of the bed. Her kisses became just as frantic, and her hands roamed down his wiry chest, along the elastic of his pajama bottoms, and then down... down...

"No, wait," yelped Terry, sounding alarmed, like a little boy trying to call time-out in a game that was not being played fairly.

Lisa felt her face flush mad red and she could barely resist pushing herself away - she felt so cheap, but she had no one to blame but herself. All this time, apparently, she had wanted Terry that way but hadn't known it herself. But no, that didn't sound accurate... there was something awkward about this, like an explorer heading into an unfamiliar cave. She loved Terry, but even in the moment where her hand went down to explore between his thighs, she felt a strange distance between them. Instead of pulling closer to him, it was like she had pushed him away. With each grope, she had isolated herself from the Terry she loved and instead, was just interested in his flesh.

"What's wrong?" asked Lisa, though her question sounded hollow to her. This whole thing was wrong, and she knew it. She withdrew her hand from his bottoms, the light crack of the elastic slapping into his lower abdomen sounded as loud as lightning in the still room.

"I... I don't know," answered Terry, shivering.

And neither did Lisa, but it was. It was wrong, and they both knew it. But why, damn it? Why was this so wrong?

You only want to do this with Terry because you don't want to die a virgin.

The cold hard truth hit her like a maul over the head. It left her dizzy and faint, even near nausea. Good God, what was she doing? Without speaking, she just wrapped her arms around Terry and her responded in kind, drawing her into a full embrace as well. They didn't kiss, they didn't take off any more clothing - they didn't go all the way that night. What they did was hold each other, remain silent, and allowed their terror to just wash away. That safe feeling when she first had laid down upon the bed returned, and she didn't want to ever leave that embrace.

Now she felt closer to Terry than she had ever been before. Now, she was with the Terry she loved.

"How about this," whispered Terry, "After this is all over, we'll go all the way - that way, we'll know its something we both want to do and not just something we're doing because we're both desperate."

Lisa kissed his cheek softly and tenderly. That was all the reply she needed to give.

Nothing happened to the Ravenclaws, and so Lisa and Terry, after talking softly about topics that neither of them really cared about, fell asleep, just like that, in each other's arms.

* * * * * *

- 5 -

10:45 PM

While Lisa and Terry's vow of temporary chastity worked for them, the sentiment was hardly mirrored between Hermione and Seamus. It had been Hermione who had almost desperately dragged Seamus out of the common room to the top of Gryffindor tower, shoved him on the bed, and had proceeded to rip off his robe and other clothes.

Of course, to say that Seamus was a victim here would have been the overstatement of the century. Sure, Hermione's forceful personality had taken him off guard, and before he knew it, he was lying on a bed in one of the guest chambers, as naked as the first day he was born. A few bedrooms were reserved at the top of Gryffindor tower for various reasons, though one had to be a prefect in order to access them. This, of course, was no problem for either of them.

When Hermione had removed her robe as well, Seamus found that he was less confused and more delighted than he had ever been in a long time.

They had fooled around for nearly an hour, kissing, petting and just enjoying the time to themselves. Harry was in charge downstairs, and they were as safe as they were going to be, which wasn't saying much. They knew the truth of the matter - whatever was going to happen that night was going to go off without a hitch. While other students enjoyed a buffer of faith in the prefects, the prefects had no such luxury. In a way, it felt liberating. There were no reservations about doing anything with Hermione that he might have experienced another time. Odds are, they would all be dead inside a day or two, so why not enjoy this while it lasted?

After they had explored new territories by passing themselves, for the next half-hour, it had become hot and heavy. For that passion filled thirty minutes, Seamus did something that he was sure his Irish Catholic mother wouldn't approve of... four times. But, where was she? She was outside of this little isolated little universe that Hogwarts had become. What did she matter anymore?

And for the last hour and a half, they had continued lightly petting, though their energy levels had dropped and they were more interested in talking now than any sort of further experimentation.

"Was it as good as you thought it would be?" asked Hermione. Her head was lying on his arm, one single light sheet pulled up over both of them.

Seamus nodded, not feeling particularly creative, "Every bit as good and more. I don't even care if we die tonight... y'know?"

It was Hermione's turn to nod, "I know. It all just seems so far away right now, and that's how I want it to stay. It's almost like its happening to someone else."

"What do you mean?" asked Seamus, lightly kissing her on the lips and breaking away.

"It's almost like some sort of movie," she continued, not missing a beat. "Inside this room is real life, out there... it's a movie mess. While we are in here, we can just observe it all and not be apart of it, but out there... we're just as helpless as the rest of them."

Seamus frowned, unable to hide a bit of concern, "You know, Hermione - that doesn't sound like you at all."

It was now Hermione's turn to ask, "What do you mean?"

"You're the last person I would ever expect to be content to observe and not to act," continued Seamus, "I was... really surprised when you brought me up here."

Hermione scowled, the same way she'd have scowled at Ron two years ago for saying something uncouth, "Oh yeah, you seemed like you were so upset to be here."

"Oh come on. It's not my fault... I have a penis," said Seamus matter-of-factly, "Sue me!"

That comment was enough to banish Hermione's scowl and make it into a laugh.

"But, seriously, Hermione - we really should be getting back... it's been..."

A cracking roar filled the room, as the door came asunder from its hinges, cracked down the middle... obliterated by one, very powerful spell, discharged by one very powerful - and very angry - wizard.

Harry stormed into the room, and Seamus would have sworn to anything that was holy that Harry was their deaths come to them. His emerald green eyes seemed to give off their own hateful light, as green as the Killing Curse itself. He was alone, but Seamus sensed that others weren't far off.

"I'm hope I'm not interrupting anything," hissed Harry, glowering at those on the bed, "But, I just had to make sure you two were all right. After all, its been three and a half fucking hours since Gryffindor has seen both their prefects."

While Seamus was afraid, Hermione seemed just as willful, "You could have knocked!" she yelled, sitting up and pulling the covers about her naked body as she did.

"I did," responded Harry, as balefully as ever, kicking aside a piece of the door. "Now, here's how its going to go... you are both going to get your selfish, naked asses up off this bed, get dressed, and head downstairs and be the leaders that you probably never should have been in the first place."

Hermione put her free hand to her mouth, gasping with disbelief, while Seamus had no illusions of further fighting Harry here. He was right - a half-hour, fine, three and a half hours... they had been selfish, there was nothing to it. Seamus tumbled out of bed and changed quickly, pulling on his clothing and then slipping his school robe over his head.

"You're right, Harry... I'm so..."

"Spare me, Finnigan, I just had dinner. Shut up and get down there. I had a hard time convincing the first years they were safe, seeing as how I couldn't bring myself to explain that you two were SHAGGING upstairs instead of doing your duty."

And Seamus did just that. He grabbed his wand, finished adjusting his collar, and rushed out the open portal, passed Harry.

Hermione just remained shell-shocked, looking at Harry like he was some kind of stranger. What had she done to deserve this? Why was Harry doing this to them? He knew damn well that he was the leader of this show, not Hermione and Seamus. Compared to him, they were sergeants of the Gryffindor army, and he was the four star field general. So what if it was three and a half hours... what difference did it make if they were up here or down there. If whatever evil they are up against decides that it wants those in the Gryffindor Common Room, it will have them. What the hell difference did it make if they were up here or down there?

"God, Hermione... what's happened to you?" said Harry, in a dark voice, "It's like you don't care about anything, anymore. Always late for classes - you even copied Ron's potions assignment last week."

Hermione continued to look scandalized, but it was taking more and more effort from her to maintain it. "What, it's all right for you and Ron to copy my notes for years, but when I forget once, it's the end of the world?"

That stole a bit of Harry's momentum. He lowered his head and said, "No, I suppose it isn't." He then looked back up. "I want to believe you are just going through some sort of phase," he continued, "Like, I don't know... I guess like me... where we all change a little. I'm just afraid you're getting worse and worse."

"And you aren't?" inquired Hermione, aggressively. "Blowing up on Ron like that when all he wanted to do was check on you... and now this show of jealous testosterone?" Her eyes narrowed, "You know that everyone hero worships you - even Seamus now. All you had to do was knock, and he'd have left."

"And what about you, Hermione?" asked Harry, "Would you have left too?"

Hermione shook her head, "You say I've changed... you're a total stranger now, Harry. I used to be able to read you, understand you, and even feel you. Now, you're like a completely different person from who you were two years ago."

"A lot of me died with Cedric that night, and the rest of it died with Sirius," returned Harry. "What's your excuse?"

Hermione pressed her lips together, doing a fine Professor McGonagall impersonation, "I'm not making excuses for myself, Harry. You're the only one who's doing that lately."

Harry turned around, his body beginning to shake, "I'm not listening to this crap anymore. You have no defense for your selfishness, so you are just trying to attack me." He looked back over his shoulder, "You heard what Ron said... didn't you... how you aren't our friend anymore, you're Seamus'."

That was it... that was the blow up comment.

"I DIDN'T REALIZE YOU AND SEAMUS WERE ON OPPOSITE SIDES!" she screamed, "YOU ARE BEING A JEALOUS GIT, JUST LIKE RON! IF YOU WERE INTERESTED IN ME BEFORE, WHY DID YOU ALWAYS FUCKING TAKE ME FOR GRANTED?"

Harry looked stunned - Hermione didn't swear often at all, but when she did, it commanded respect and second thoughts. Not letting up, she continued.

"HOW DARE YOU ACCUSE ME OF CHANGING, HARRY! TAKE THE LOG OUT OF YOUR OWN EYE BEFORE TRYING TO TAKE THE SPLINTER OUT OF MINE!"

Then, she saw the ugliest thing she hadd ever seen in her entire life. It was in slow motion: Harry's stony expression changed, to a frown, his lips parting slightly and revealing his straight, white teeth... then his eyebrows thinned, his eyes narrowed and his upper lip lifted to the most hideous scowl she'd ever seen in her life. Once before had she seen him give that scowl to someone, and that had been Lucius Malfoy, in the Department of Mysteries. How Harry had scowled then, when he realized he had walked right into a trap. And, on a smaller scale, that is just what had happened here. He had come into the room, wand blasting, and had no idea what to expect inside. Hermione had surprised him, redirected his anger, and now had placed it right back on him... Harry had no one to blame but himself and he was not happy about that.

"Remove your own damn splinter," muttered Harry, before adding coldly at the end, "Granger."

And, he left it like that, walking out the door.

Unable to help herself, she fell out of bed, her naked body hit the surprisingly cold air sent shivers all up and down her spine. She staggered over to the tower window, threw it open, and was sick.

* * * * * *

- 6 -

11:15 PM

"Harry... stop... Harry, what are you doing?" Ron made it a point to stand in his way.

Harry shoved Ron out of the way with amazing strength. Ron fell over on top of a chess game between Dennis Creevey and a fourth year girl, sending the pieces scattering everywhere.

Most of the students had retired to their bedrooms at Harry's request, only thirty or so remained in the Common Room, on guard duty. A seventh year named Greg Farley and his friend Jones Krade had agreed to keep charge while Harry went on his little mission. They had planned three shifts of four hours each, which started at eight o'clock. That would safely take them to sun-up, when they would head back to the Great Hall and meet with the other students in the houses, though Harry suspected that none of them would make it through the night.

Harry had been trying to work out the vision Lord Voldemort had given him before. Unless he was being deceived, which he didn't exactly rule out, after what had happened last year, Voldemort had sent him a very real message... Dumbledore and him were cutting a deal with themselves and were both going to use Harry to neutralize this situation. Wouldn't want to let any of those folks so many miles outside of school down, now did he?

Charged by the pure feeling of isolation, Harry moved through the Common Room, seeing no one... not even Ron, who he had so easily shoved aside. He was alone; he was back in the Dursley's home, never knowing when evil would command him to make breakfast, cook dinner, do Dudley's homework... or just stand there and get yelled at for amusement. Sixteen-year-old Harry Potter was done with that. He was done waiting - he would never wait again.

Ron recovered and was back in his face again. He was halfway across the Common Room now, commanding the attention of fifty-eight very anxious eyes. "Harry, where are you going?" Ron demanded, his voice straining, filled with worry.

"I'm going to face this thing," sneered Harry, "I'm going to face this thing and win."

"Alone?" gasped Ron. He walked with him, giving space as opposed to just getting shoved again.

"Like usual," muttered Harry. Five students were blocking the portrait hole. "Move."

One was Jones Krade. He was about Harry's build, only a few inches taller, with curly brown hair and round, freckled cheeks.

"Harry, I can't let you..."

Harry's wand, which had never left his hand, raised, "Petrificus Totalus!"

Jones stiffened, groaned, and fell sideways, out of Harry's way. Harry stepped over his body like he was a log in the middle of the forest. No one else stood in his way after that.

Ron had also shut up, drawn his wand, and had fallen in behind Harry. How touching, noted Harry, though in truth, he felt better knowing Ron was behind him. Of course, he didn't mention that to Ron.

The portrait swung open and Harry nearly tripped over a body on his way out. Shocked, Harry looked down at the redheaded girl at the base of the portrait, curled up like a ball on the ground, shivering. She had been crying, obviously, as her cheeks were stained red and her appearance was one of a child - pale faced and terrified.

"Blaise?" asked Harry, his brows arching to his hairline, "What are you doing out here?"