Harry Potter and the Watcher's Council

Chapter 10: Once More, With Feeling

"Passion is the source of our finest moments. The joy of love... the clarity of hatred... and the ecstasy of grief. It hurts sometimes more than we can bear. If we could live without passion, maybe we'd know some kind of peace. But we would be hollow. Empty rooms, shuttered and dank... Without passion, we'd be truly dead." -Angelus, "Passion"

They ran.

When he looked back later and tried to remember those few moments of time during which the Dark Mark filled the breadth of his vision, hovering sickly green over the neat little house, Harry would find the task unbearable. Those brief moments between excruciating rage and all-encompassing pain...

He ran so hard he thought his heart would burst with the effort, but time seemed to shift to a liquid slowness. He could feel every wrenching effort of his legs pumping on the pavement weakly lit by the morning sun, every heavy beat of his heart as it thumped erratically in his chest, every painful, rattling effort of his lungs to pump oxygen, leaving him gasping harshly for breath. It was such a sudden crashing, sinking feeling inside him, as if his bones had turned to iron and his blood had hardened in his veins. He burst through the front door, Ron on his heels, and didn't pause to think, but continued running, down a long narrow hall, around a corner...

And then he saw her. Lying on the floor in a crumpled, lifeless heap, straggling brown hair covering her face, arms and legs sprawled awkwardly, wand clutched limply in her hand--Hermione. He fell to his knees beside her limp body and felt his own face crumple as he lost the battle to control his emotions. Where only moments before his heart had been racing inside his chest, now it, too, seemed to be caught in an underwater stillness. Were it not for the blood roaring in his ears, he would have thought it had stopped entirely.

His throat clenched up so tightly that he couldn't speak, couldn't do anything but fight the battle against tears. Ron fell to his knees on the other side of her, his shocked white face mirroring Harry's emotions. "Hermione?" he whispered in a cracked voice. He reached out slowly and brushed the hair from her face.

Harry almost turned away. He didn't know if he could bear to see his friend like this, see her staring, empty eyes--the eyes of the Killing Curse. He had seen it too many times already in his dreams, and on Cedric's shocked white face.

But her eyes were closed.

"Hermione?" Harry choked out, a sudden surge of hope rushing through him. He grasped her shoulder roughly and shook her, but she didn't move or wake. "Is she...?"

Ron swallowed. "I can't tell. Is she breathing? Oh no, oh no. What do we do?" His voice was filled with the sort of panic Harry rarely heard from him and his eyes were tearing up.

Harry bent his head and laid it on her chest, hoping against hope for a heartbeat. For long seconds he heard nothing but the sound of his own raspy breathing, but then faintly, distantly... a flutter. She was alive, but only just.

"She's alive!" he yelled. "We've got to get someone. Call an ambulance! Does St. Mungo's even have ambulances? What do wizards do in case of emergencies?" He stared at Ron desperately, searching for answers. Meanwhile, they were wasting precious time, and Harry didn't think Hermione had much left.

Before Ron could answer, Harry heard the unmistakable crack of someone apparating just outside the front door. Ron's eyes grew huge and round, filled with fear and anger. "They haven't come back to finish the job...?" he asked in a harsh whisper.

Harry stood and faced the doorway through which they had come only minutes before, his wand at the ready. If the Death Eaters who had nearly killed his friend were back, they would be very sorry indeed. He wouldn't relinquish her without a fight, even if he had to die in the process. Something Sirius had once said, in a time that seemed as if it were another life although it had only been a year ago, came back to him suddenly: Some things are worth dying for. His eyes narrowed and he waited, shoulders rising in tense anticipation.

"Hermione?!" he heard a voice crying out from down the hall. "Are you all right? What's happen--" The voice cut out as Tonks came barreling around the corner, wand out. She stared in shock from Harry to Ron to Hermione, lying so very still on the living room rug. "Oh no," she whispered. "It's too late."

Kingsley Shacklebolt's voice echoed down the hall. "Have you found them?"

"In here!" Tonks yelled as she pushed past Harry to kneel beside Hermione. Kingsley ran into the room, breathing hard, his eyes surveying the scene cautiously. He stepped past Harry as well and, to Harry's surprise, over Hermione to walk further into the room. Harry turned to watch the man's progress and was shocked to see Hermione's parents tied tightly to two of their own dining room chairs, unconscious but clearly alive. In his haste to get to Hermione, he hadn't even considered her parents.

"She was like this when you arrived?" Tonks asked from the floor, carefully lifting Hermione's eyelid to check the girl's pupils in the light of her wand.

"Yeah," Ron whispered, his voice sounding very scratchy. "Harry said she's... she's alive?"

"Just barely," Tonks said grimly. "I'll have to apparate her to St. Mungo's straight away. Kingsley, can you get Mr. and Mrs. Granger yourself, or should we call for back up?"

"I'll be fine," he said gruffly, touching his wand to Mr. Granger's bonds so that they fell away.

Tonks gazed from Harry to Ron, pity clear in her bright eyes. "You won't be able to follow. I'm... I'm sorry. You should go back straight off, before anyone knows you've gone. It won't look good if you know what's happened before anyone tells you. Too many questions..." She bit her lip and pulled a quill from her pocket. "Portus!" she whispered, tapping the quill with her wand. It glowed blue for a brief instant before she handed it to Harry. "It's set to take you back in two minutes."

And before they could argue that they wanted to go with Hermione, Tonks had wrapped the girl in her cloak and the two of them disappeared from the room with a crack.

Ron grabbed onto the quill and they waited for what seemed like the longest minute of their lives for the Portkey to activate. The last thing he saw as Harry felt the familiar, uncomfortable jerking sensation behind his navel was Kingsley grasping Mrs. Granger's wrist in one hand and draping Mr. Granger's arm around his shoulders before they, too, were gone with a crack.

Harry closed his eyes against the swirling, dizzying sensation that always accompanied traveling by Portkey. He landed heavily in their bedroom at Giles's house, only just managing to keep his balance. Ron slumped down onto his bed, letting his head fall into his hands with an anguished moan of frustration. Harry sat down next to him, not speaking, and they waited in tense silence to be notified that Hermione and her parents had been attacked.

Harry couldn't help the feelings of guilt and shame that came rushing through him as they sat there during those long minutes of waiting. He knew something like this was bound to happen to his friends; he had cut himself off from them this summer because of it. But they had insisted, and had brought him back from his self-imposed isolation. His friends wouldn't leave him alone. They said they would always be there for him, be with him. And he had allowed it, because he wanted--no, needed--their friendship, more than anything else. But after this, how could he allow it to continue? How could he, in good conscience, remain their friend, when being his friend was such a liability, not only to them, but to their families as well? He felt his throat tighten at the idea of trying to give up Ron and Hermione, the only two people in the world who had never let him down, who he trusted with every ounce of his being. He glanced at Ron out of the corner of his eye and saw that he was tugging at his bright hair futilely, clearly desperate, as he was, to get to Hermione. Biting his lip, Harry put a hesitant arm around Ron's shoulders. He didn't know how to comfort people--in the past it had always been he who had needed the comforting--but the least he could do for Ron was to be there for him. It was his fault, after all, that Hermione had been hurt in the first place.

Ron didn't acknowledge his gesture, but seemed to relax a bit under his touch, letting his fingers still against his hair. Hermione's parents, Harry thought with another rush of guilt... they had done nothing to deserve what had happened to them. Hermione had gone home to protect them, never knowing that her very presence would endanger them even further. Harry hoped desperately that they would be all right, that they hadn't been tortured or been the victims of the Cruciatus. He remembered vividly the ward at St. Mungo's for people who suffered from permanent spell damage. Neville's parents lived there, their minds ruined by prolonged exposure to the Cruciatus curse. They didn't even recognize their son when he went to visit. If Hermione's parents suffered the same fate, Harry didn't know if he could stand it. It would be his fault, all his fault...

The sound of steps thundering up the staircase broke his reverie. Harry's eyes flew to the door and he stood suddenly, jarring Ron out of his grieved stupor. The door flew open with a crash and Buffy and Willow rushed in, their faces white. Willow swallowed and looked as if she was about to cry, and Buffy stared from Harry to Ron, an expression of pained remorse on her face. Neither of them seemed to know what to say.

"What is it?" Harry asked. "Has something happened?"

Buffy crossed the length of the room in a few strides and surprised Harry with a brief, hard hug. She took Harry's hand in one of her own, and Ron's in the other before speaking. "It's Hermione," she told them in a stricken voice. "She--her family--they've been attacked. She's at the hospital now. We can go whenever you want..."

"Now," Ron said firmly, standing. "We're going now. Does Ginny know?"

Willow nodded. "Your mom contacted us by the fireplace. Ginny's waiting in the parlor. We're hooked up to that Floo thingy for a few hours, so that we can go. Your dad did it..."

Harry followed the three of them down to the parlor, where the fireplace waited for him, looking as cold and empty as he felt. With a muttered word from Willow, a fire suddenly crackled merrily in the grate. "Fortunately I've got some Floo powder on hand," Giles muttered nervously, opening drawers in the cabinets along the wall. "Keep it for emergencies. Ah yes, here it is. Dawn and I will wait here, shall we, and er, well, wait." Dawn, sitting on the edge of the couch, looked as if she was about to protest, but a look of warning from Buffy kept her silent.

Ron was the first to go. Taking a pinch of powder from Giles, he threw it into the fire and left without so much as glancing at any of the others. Harry followed him, finding that he, too, had avoided looking at his professors but, more significantly, at Ginny. He didn't think he could stand the sight of her right now, not so soon after... Because surely, the Malfoys had been in on this attack, and Ginny was right in there with them. With Draco, anyway. Harry didn't care what she said about him being reformed, or not being his dad. He certainly wasn't working against the Death Eaters, and that made him just as bad as the rest, to sit back and idly watch as people were murdered and tortured around him. Harry didn't care what reasons Ginny had to be involved with Malfoy, she should have known something like this was going to happen. And she needed to realize that she was, in part, responsible. How else would Malfoy know where Hermione was, if Ginny hadn't been the one to tell him?

Harry arrived at the Floo station at St. Mungo's, covered in soot and coughing as he stepped out of the fireplace. Ron waited for him, performing a Cleaning Charm on Harry the moment he moved out of the grate.

"They won't let us in covered in soot," he said briskly, walking toward the reception desk where the Welcome Witch sat, charming her nails different colors with obvious boredom. "It's unhygienic."

Harry shrugged. He didn't think he could speak at this point, much less care about a bit of dust. Anything he said would be inadequate, and what's more, his throat felt so painfully constricted that he didn't know if he was even capable of speech. Ron cleared his throat meaningfully at the Welcome Witch, who was too absorbed in her fingernails to notice them. Harry was only vaguely aware of Ginny, Willow, and Buffy arriving and queuing up behind them as he waited with Ron.

The witch glanced up at them briefly before going back to her nails. "Can I help you?" she asked mechanically.

"We're here to see Hermione Granger," Ron said in a shaking, quiet voice.

The witch's gaze flew to his face in surprise. "She's only just arrived," she said, a hint of sympathy in her voice as she stared from Ron to Harry. "School friends of hers, are you? Well, she's still in the Emergency Ward, but once the Healers have got her stabilized, she'll be moved to Spell Damage, fourth floor, ward thirty-two. You can go up there now if you like, to wait. The Healer on duty will let you know when you can see her." Ron nodded numbly and started toward the stair, but Harry hesitated.

"And her parents?" he asked, not sure if he wanted the answer.

The witch paused to glance through the sheets of parchment littering her desk. "They're on the third floor. The P.O.D. ward."

"Er, P.O.D. ward?" Harry asked.

"Potions overdose," the witch explained, going back to charming her nails.

"Thanks," Harry managed, before following Ron down the corridor to the staircase. He was dimly aware of the others behind him, but tried to block them out for the time being. He didn't want to think about Ginny and her role in this right now, not until he knew Hermione was all right. Only then could he figure out how he felt about her involvement in it.

The fourth floor was where Neville's parents, along with Professor Lockhart, all stayed, in a closed ward for incurable patients. Harry and Ron turned away from the doors leading to that ward and walked down a long, narrow corridor until they came to ward thirty-two. The sign by the door read, "The Dilys Derwent Ward: Severe Spell Damage." Underneath this sign was a handwritten card that read, "Healer-in-Charge: Hippolyta Cantatius, Trainee Healer: David Smallings." Harry exchanged a pained glance with Ron before entering the ward, swallowing hard, not sure what to expect.

Unlike the ward Mr. Weasley had been in last Christmas, the Severe Spell Damage ward had a small waiting room filled with comfortable, squashy chairs that reminded Harry of the Gryffindor common room. There were portraits of famous Healers scattered about the walls almost haphazardly. Several low tables littered with magazines and dated copies of the Daily Prophet stood in the midst of groups of chairs, and at the front of the room to the right of the door, a witch in lime green robes with the St. Mungo's symbol of a crossed bone and wand sat at a spindly wooden desk, hunched over a sheaf of parchment.

"Oh thank goodness you're all right!" Harry heard Mrs. Weasley's voice cry out from his left with surprise. He hadn't expected her to be there, but then he supposed he and Ron were hardly the only people who cared about Hermione. He turned to face her, his throat clenching painfully.

She reached Ginny first and wrapped the girl in her arms. Harry heard Ginny let out a small sob and felt a brief stab of anger. Ginny didn't deserve to grieve and be comforted, not when--but no. He wouldn't think about that now. Mrs. Weasley went to him next, drawing him into her comforting embrace with a sad sigh.

"Oh Harry," she whispered, so only he could hear, "she'll be all right, I promise. They're not going to take anyone else away from you. I won't let them."

Harry knew she couldn't really promise any such thing, but he felt comforted nonetheless by her words. She hugged Ron next, and though Harry couldn't hear what she said to him, he could see Ron nodding his head against her shoulder and squeezing his eyes shut.

"Mum," Ginny said softly, "this is Willow and Buffy." The two girls smiled shyly and offered Mrs. Weasley their hands, but she ignored them and pulled them both into brief hugs as well.

"I don't know how to thank you," she said to Willow and Buffy as they all settled into chairs to wait. "If you hadn't been there last night, I don't know what... but no, you'll all be wanting to know about the Grangers." She took a deep breath, and Harry could tell she was attempting to collect herself. He could see the streaks on her cheeks where she'd been crying and felt surprised that she cared so much. But then, Hermione had been with them so often at the Burrow and at Grimmauld Place that Mrs. Weasley probably felt as if she were Hermione's surrogate mother, in the same way that she had said Harry was as good as her son.

"Hermione's still in the E.W., I'm sure the Welcome Witch told you. We won't know anything about her until they've brought her up. The good news is, no lasting damage was done to her parents. If the Healers manage to revive them, they should be fine."

"What do you mean, if they manage?" Ron asked. "You can't mean to say they're still unconscious?"

Mrs. Weasley glanced at him shrewdly, but said only, "They are. It's something Muggles call a... comma?" She shook her head. "No, that doesn't sound right. But at any rate, they're in a deep trance, locked inside their own unconscious minds right now. It's a side effect of Veritaserum overdose."

"They're in comas?" Willow asked, looking concerned. "Veritaserum--that's like a Truth Potion, right? Why would someone give them an overdose...?"

Mrs. Weasley's eyes shifted nervously from Harry's face to focus on the young woman, and her hands clenched in tight fists in her lap. Harry had the distinct impression that, with her worry over her children gone for the moment, she was extremely angry about something.

"You're Willow, aren't you dear?" she asked, her voice firm but kind. "You can't imagine a situation in which someone would be tempted to give someone else an overdose of Truth Potion...?"

Willow's eyes widened in sudden understanding, but it was Buffy who spoke. "But if they didn't respond to the normal dosage, why bother giving them more? Unless they're just sadistic psychos or something..." she trailed off at the look on Mrs. Weasley's face. "Oh. So they're like, bosom buds with the old Marquis. Don't those types usually tend toward the torture and mayhem to get answers? So why bother with the subtle, non-deathy approach?"

"They weren't tortured...?" Ginny whispered, horrified.

Mrs. Weasley sent Buffy a disapproving look before answering her daughter. "As far as we can tell, it was just the Veritaserum overdose. There are no signs that Cruciatus was used."

"Oh thank goodness," Ginny said, looking truly relieved. Harry glared at her but didn't speak.

"Croutons?" Buffy asked. "As a method of torture, that's fairly obscure."

"Cruciatus," Ron corrected in a low, hoarse voice. "It's an Unforgivable Curse used to torture people. It causes pain, and people have gone insane from prolonged exposure to it."

"Mrs. Weasley," Harry said, "do you know what happened to them? Why were they attacked?"

Mrs. Weasley fidgeted before answering. "I shouldn't... it's not for you children to know..."

"Mum!" Ron interrupted. "She's our friend! We deserve to know what happened!"

Mrs. Weasley sighed. "Well, all right then. But only because it'll be all over the Daily Prophet tonight, so you're bound to find out anyway." She lowered her voice and glanced around the waiting room nervously. Until then, Harry hadn't paid much attention to the other occupants of the room, but now he noticed that it was nearly full of witches and wizards waiting nervously to hear about their loved ones. Surely this was rather a large crowd to be waiting in the Severe Spell Damage ward. His suspicions were confirmed by Mrs. Weasley's next words.

"The Grangers weren't the only ones attacked. I didn't want you to worry more than was necessary but..." she took a deep breath. "Several Muggleborn Hogwarts students and their families were attacked last night. We don't yet know the full extent of it but..." she trailed off helplessly, as if not knowing what else to say.

Harry felt the air whoosh out of him in one long breath as he struggled to understand her words. It hadn't been just Hermione, which meant it wasn't a personal attack. He felt a brief spurt of relief that she hadn't been attacked because of him, quickly followed by a surge of anger at the extent of the damage the Death Eaters had caused.

"Hang on," Ron said, "we were attacked last night too! But none of us are Muggleborns," he added thoughtfully.

"Oh Ron," Ginny said derisively. "Everyone knows that the Weasley's are a load of blood traitors and Muggle-lovers."

"Who else was attacked, Mrs. Weasley?" Harry asked.

Her eyes slid from his, and Harry knew from that simple gesture that someone else he was close to had been one of the victims. "I'd rather not say right now, Harry," she murmured, not able to meet his eyes.

Before Harry could put up a protest, the witch behind the spindly desk stood up and walked toward them, stopping only when she was standing next to Ron's chair.

"Mrs. Weasley?" she said softly. "You asked me to notify you when I received word on Miss Granger?"

"Yes," Mrs. Weasley said, looking as if she were afraid to hear the news. Harry stared at the woman eagerly, willing her to tell them that Hermione was okay.

"Miss Granger has just been transferred up from the E.W. She's suffered a severe shock, but she's awake and she's going to be fine."

Harry breathed a sigh of relief. "Can we see her?" he asked.

The witch looked at him uncertainly. "She's still very weak. I don't want her getting overly excited," she warned.

Harry and Ron both stood up. "We won't be exciting," Ron promised. "We'll be dull. We'll talk about the Goblin Rebellions, that's nice and boring."

"She likes talking about History of Magic," Harry reminded him, smiling for the first time in what seemed like weeks. Hermione was awake, and she was going to be fine. Harry could have sung with joy, if he was the kind of person who did that sort of thing, which he wasn't, he reminded himself firmly.

"Right, Quidditch, then," Ron said, beaming. "She hates Quidditch. Thinks it's frightfully dull and only watches the matches because we're playing."

The witch looked confused, but gestured that they should follow her. Mrs. Weasley, Ginny, Buffy, and Willow fell into step behind the two boys as they made their way through the double doors behind the spindly desk and into a large, airy room filled with beds and hanging curtains that reminded Harry forcibly of the Hogwarts infirmary. Most of the beds had occupants or were otherwise curtained off, but Harry didn't pause to notice any of it. His eyes lit on Hermione, sitting up in a bed directly across from the doors, smiling weakly at the sight of them.

Harry and Ron rushed over to her, each taking a spot on either side of her bed.

"We thought you were dead!" Ron burst out.

Hermione shook her head and leaned back against her pillows, closing her eyes briefly.

"I'm alive," she said softly, "although my head aches so much I almost wish I wasn't."

Ron sent Harry a worried glance. Mrs. Weasley fussed, pushing Hermione's hair back from her face and clucking.

"Nonsense, dear. You were very brave. A headache is worth saving your parents' lives, isn't it?"

Hermione swallowed hard and nodded, not opening her eyes. "They won't tell me anything about Mum and Dad," she whispered. "Are they...all right? They can't be, can they, if they won't say?"

"They're still unconscious," Harry told her before Mrs. Weasley could stop him. Hermione deserved to know what had happened to her parents, even if they weren't supposed to excite her. "But it's just shock, they'll come out of it."

She nodded, seemingly satisfied, and opened her eyes, gazing around at all of them. Her eyes turned glassy and wet. "I can't believe you're all here. I never thought I'd see you again!" She swallowed again, and didn't bother to prevent the tears from spilling down her cheeks.

"Hermione," Ron asked softly, taking her hand in both of his, "what happened?"

"Ron!" Mrs. Weasley admonished, "I really don't think--"

"No, Mrs. Weasley," Hermione cut her off quickly, "I want to talk about it." She took a deep breath as Mrs. Weasley conjured chairs for everyone.

"I was asleep when it happened," she began, staring at the blanket covering her legs. "My parents were still awake, watching the late film on television. I should actually be thanking you, Willow. If it hadn't been for the wards you researched for me, I'd probably have slept through the entire thing and my parents..."

Hermione closed her eyes briefly before continuing on. "The wards went off--silent, of course, but I could feel that something was wrong and it woke me up. There were voices downstairs, and I could hear my mum pleading with them. So I did the only thing I could--grabbed my wand and snuck down the stairs."

Harry watched Hermione carefully as she told her story. Her voice sounded funny to him, somehow, almost rehearsed, as if she had practiced what she was going to say. She didn't look at any of them as she spoke, but stared hard at the sheet covering her legs. Harry shook his head. She was just tired and upset, he told himself firmly. Nothing to worry about.

"Anyway," she continued, "they weren't expecting me to be home, were they? I was meant to go to the safe house. So I hid in the shadows and watched, trying to form some sort of plan. They had Mum and Dad tied to chairs. They looked so strange, my parents. Dazed, as if all the light had gone from their eyes. One of them--I think it was Nott--started questioning my parents, and I knew then that they must have given them Veritaserum just from the way they were speaking, all monotone. Nott wanted to know where I was, and my mum answered that I was asleep upstairs, but he was convinced she was lying, despite the Veritaserum. He said I couldn't possibly be upstairs, that she must be Memory Charmed, because he knew for a fact I was at the safe house, and did they know where that was? After a few more minutes he started to get really angry. He grabbed the bottle from one of the other men and forced my parents to drink the rest of it."

"I knew I had to do something then--Veritaserum is strictly controlled by the Ministry for a reason-- so I did the only thing I could think of. I used Expelliarmus, but I only managed to disarm two of them. The third one yelled a spell at me, I can't recall which, and that's all I can remember until I woke up in the E.W. thirty minutes ago."

"Oh, Hermione!" Mrs. Weasley sobbed, engulfing the girl in a tight hug. "Oh, you shouldn't have had to go through such an ordeal, but then I guess we should be thankful that you weren't..."

"But why wasn't I killed?" Hermione asked, pulling away from Mrs. Weasley. Harry stared at her in shock. Wasn't she happy she hadn't died?

"They were after me, obviously. Why didn't they kill me when they had the chance?"

Before any of them could say anything, a stern-looking Healer came over to shoo them all out of the ward. They said good-bye to Hermione and promised to come back the next day to visit her. As they left the ward, Harry's eyes traveled around the room, resting for a moment on a familiar blond head in one of the far beds.

Harry paused and grabbed Ron's arm. "Ron, isn't that...?"

"Dennis Creevey," Ron whispered sadly. "He must've been attacked too."

"But Ron," Harry added, looking wildly around the ward, "I don't see Colin." Ron stood stock still for a moment before shaking his head and following his mother out of the ward.

"He's probably fine, Harry," Ron said as they hurried down the long corridor toward the stair. "They didn't kill Hermione or Dennis. Surely Colin is safe. He's just in another ward is all. Or maybe he wasn't hurt at all. Maybe he's home with his parents, and they've already been to visit Dennis."

"You're probably right," Harry murmured, but he couldn't help but remember the way Mrs. Weasley hadn't been able to meet his eyes.

***********

Harry felt sick with dread that night, waiting for the evening news program, "The Witching Hour," to begin on the old Wizard Wireless Giles had dug out of his basement. "I haven't listened to this thing in ages," he admitted as he set it up in the front parlor. "Not much use, really, unless you're interested in keeping up with Quidditch."

"You knew about Quidditch and you never told us?" Buffy asked huffily, as if her former Watcher had made some grave error in judgment.

Giles raised his eyebrows at her. "Um, yes, well. I'd been searching for just the right time to tell you, actually. But you know, uh, between apocalypses and you dying and the Mayor's Ascension, it must have slipped my mind."

"A simple, 'I was too busy,' would've made your point, too," Willow pointed out.

"Er, right. Yes, well, I think I've got it working now. Harry, why don't you go ahead and uh, give it a tap. With your wand."

Harry tapped the old-fashioned looking radio with a doubtful glance at Ron. The thing was so old he doubted it really worked, but they were both desperate to hear the news. Immediately a strange sort of static filled the air. For a moment Harry thought it hadn't worked after all--that they'd only gotten fuzz--but then a man's voice crackled from the box, making them all jump in surprise.

"...and later tonight on 'The Witching Hour': in yet another bungled operation, Cornelius Fudge's ineffective and apparently incompetent administration failed to protect nearly a dozen Muggleborn Hogwarts students last night as Death Eaters attacked homes all across the country. But first, the news with Jim Larson."

Harry waited nervously through news briefs about several different bills being debated at the Ministry, a story about the effects of last summer's drought on pumpkin farmers in the country, and a brief station break soliciting donations to the WWN "because Wizard's Wireless is only made possible through contributions from listeners like you!" He wondered aloud why the story wasn't a top item; Ron thought it had probably already been covered so much during the day, that they were only recapping it tonight. They both pointedly ignored Ginny, who sat in a shadowy corner, looking pale and miserable. Harry could barely stand to look at her.

"Oh wait, here it is!" Harry said, shushing Ron and scooting closer to the Wireless.

"But the story on everyone's minds tonight is, of course, the massive attacks instigated last night all across the country, attacks which many are touting as the first real battle of the war against You-Know-Who and his followers. For more on this, we go to Margaret Olsen in London."

"Thank you, Jim. I'm standing outside the Ministry of Magic's visitors' entrance, just a small, abandoned telephone booth in a shady alley in the heart of London. The booth is cramped; its folding door hangs askew on its hinges, oftentimes refusing to close for those few witches and wizards who use this entrance to gain admission into the building where all the most important decisions regarding our lives are made. Laws and regulations, who is guilty and who is innocent, even wizard's rights... all are decided just inside this ragged, crumbling telephone booth. This cramped red rectangle of rusted metal and peeling plastic is more than just a gateway, however. It is a barrier, a metaphor for Cornelius Fudge's administration and the mistakes he has made since his inauguration fifteen years ago, and those he continues to make, even in the face of this latest tragedy.

"You all know the story by now: on the evening of Christmas Day, at approximately nine o'clock p.m., nearly a dozen homes across Britain were brutally attacked by black robed, hooded persons. In each house lived a Muggleborn Hogwarts student, all home to visit their families for the holidays, never knowing that they would soon become the only defense between the deadly spells of Death Eaters and their Muggle families. In most cases the Muggleborn students were the only witch or wizard in their family, and they quickly found themselves forced to fight in a war not of their making, not of their choosing, much sooner than anyone had a right to expect them to.

"The Creevey family was lucky, if any of those attacked last night can be said to be. Both of their children attended Hogwarts School, and both boys were gifted wizards in their own right. They had just returned from a night of caroling--a family tradition the Creeveys have observed for generations--when little Dennis, a third year student, noticed strange figures appearing out of thin air all around their house. The moment he stepped outside to get a better look, he was hit with a spell that nearly killed him--would have killed him--had it not been for his older brother's quick insight in casting a Shield Spell. Colin Creevey, a fifth year student, told his parents to take Dennis and run. The Creeveys could only do as he said. They, after all, had no magic, and were defenseless against the Death Eaters. Colin Creevey fought bravely and died tragically to save his family from a terrible fate. He was a true Gryffindor to the end.

"Instead of honoring his memory, and those of the four other students who died in last night's attacks, the Minister is insisting that these assaults were simply random acts of violence, and while surely perpetrated by the followers of He Who Must Not Be Named, the fact that all of the victims were Muggleborn is inconsequential. Fudge and his administration continue to insist that Muggleborn students and their families are not at any special risk, and should continue to lead their lives as normally as possible, just as we all must in the wake of this terrible tragedy.

"As I stand here outside the decrepit telephone booth--a Muggle artifact, to be sure--I can't help but think that Fudge's administration has led us in a direction that made it possible for acts of terrorism such as last night's events to occur. Like this telephone booth, Wizard-Muggle relations are broken down and outdated, falling apart due to disuse and disrepair. Fudge has made this lax attitude, this patronizing view of Muggles, possible through his insistence on the hidden nature of the Wizarding World, even to the extent that such secrecy has in the past and will in the future cost Muggles their lives. Can we, after last night's events, afford to continue to treat Muggles as lower life forms, the way the current administration has been doing for the past fifteen years? Is that how Fudge plans to honor Colin Creevey and those like him who died defending their Muggle families--by perpetuating the credo of hatred and inferiority that is the very crux of You-Know-Who's philosophy?

"I, for one, am reminded tonight of a man who, not even a year ago, was killed in a battle beneath my very feet, in the bowels of the Ministry, to defend his friends and family. A man shunned by society and falsely accused, a man who was sent to Azkaban by this very administration without trial and rotted there for twelve years with only dementors for company. A man who, despite being treated abominably by the Ministry and believed a murderer by even those he thought would always have faith in him, fought and died to defend the very world that believed him nothing more than a traitorous follower of He Who Must Not Be Named.

"Sirius Black died to defend his friends and family, because he believed in the possibility of a better world. So tonight, while the Wizangamot convenes to discuss the events of Christmas evening, I urge them to remember the faces of Sirius Black and Colin Creevey, and those of the four other students and their families who have died thus far in the fight against the rising tide of evil in our world. For the WWN in London, I am Margaret Olsen."

"Thank you, Margaret. And now in other news..."

The Wireless sputtered and died as Harry tapped it mechanically with his wand. He stared at the faces of the others in the room: Ron, who looked shell shocked and white-faced; Giles, who was clucking his tongue and shaking his head sadly; Willow and Buffy, who were exchanging sad, knowing looks, as if to say they were used to this sort of thing; and Ginny, who was staring into the crackling fire, seemingly heedless of the tears streaming down her cheeks. Harry felt strangely empty. He knew at some point he would begin to feel it--the news that Colin Creevey, the same boy who had taken his photo so many times and played Beater on his Quidditch team, was dead. Harry couldn't quite process it. A part of him, despite the Wireless broadcast, was absolutely certain that when he returned to Hogwarts in a few days' time, Colin would be there in the corridors, calling out, "All right then, Harry?" and grinning his toothy smile.

And who, Harry wondered, were the other five students who had died in the attacks? Staring into the dancing flames of the fire, Harry couldn't decide if he truly wanted to know.

*********

Harry was still sitting in front of the fireplace hours after everyone else had gone to bed, staring blankly into the dying fire and trying not to think. His brain wasn't cooperating, though. He couldn't get the image of Colin Creevey out of his mind. He remembered Colin in so many ways, from his days as a rather odd first year always begging to take Harry's photo, to him lying Petrified in the hospital wing at Hogwarts. His efforts during D.A. meetings, he and Dennis staying up late into the night in the Gryffindor common room, attempting to charm "Support Cedric Diggory!" badges to read Harry's name instead. And over and over again, he imagined how Colin's last moments must have been: casting the Shield Charm that had saved his brother, telling his parents to take Dennis and go, being met with the terrible whooshing sound of approaching death and a bright green flash... and it reminded him horribly of the memories the dementors had invoked in him during his third year, of his parents dying. "Lily, take Harry and go!"

Harry covered his face with his hands, letting his fingers tug fitfully at his mop of messy hair. He knew he should be more concerned about the others that had been attacked, but a part of him was afraid to know, afraid to find out if he'd lost another friend. Or four. He ran through all the likeliest possibilities in his head: Lavender Brown, Dean Thomas, Justin Finch-Fletchley, Terry Boot, Hannah Abbot... the list went on and on. There were loads of Muggleborns at Hogwarts, not just the ones in his year. It could be any of them.

"Harry?" Harry raised his head at the voice and squinted at the shadowy figure leaning in the doorjamb. Buffy took a few uncertain steps into the room, as if unsure whether or not she should disturb him.

"Um, it's kinda late. Aren't you tired?"

Harry leaned back in his chair with a sigh and nodded. He was tired, exhausted, really. He hadn't had much sleep the night before, had spent a better part of the morning riding his Firebolt to get to Hermione, and the rest of it worrying about her. He hadn't been able to sleep the rest of the day, waiting for the news to come on and watching Giles fiddle with the Wireless... yes, he was tired. But he was also dreading sleep, and the dreams he knew would follow.

Buffy sat down in the chair across from him, clenching her hands together nervously.

"I'm not exactly good with the whole talking thing. I tend to get pretty clammy myself. Feelings aren't a big thing with me. Letting them out, I mean. 'Cause it's my job to be strong, you know? I'm supposed to be a Champion. People depend on me."

Harry nodded, wondering why she was giving him this speech. He wished she'd just let him alone, because he dreaded the direction this was heading--straight into the "you have to talk about your feelings or you'll crack" arena. And Harry didn't feel like talking, not at all. He hadn't even let Colin's death truly sink in yet. He didn't know how he felt about it, aside from the obvious.

"What I'm trying to say is, I've been where you are Harry. I went to high school on a Hellmouth. A lot of my friends died, and it was my fault I couldn't save them. And sometimes, it was my fault because I was the Slayer, and I tend to get lots of creepy crawly monster guys after me. If they can't hurt me physically, they'll try to do it through my friends."

Harry stared at her, nonplussed. Was she saying what he thought she was saying? That these attacks, Colin and the other students who had died... that it was his fault? He felt responsible in some ways, yes, but he'd thought this whole thing was some sort of Mudblood hatred, not that it had anything to do with him specifically.

"Oh, I don't think this is your fault," Buffy said quickly at the darkening expression on Harry's face. "I'm just saying, that you can't give up now. People are going to die. It's war, and it's something you'll have to get used to. It will hurt, every time, but that's good, because it'll remind you that you're still alive, and you still have work to do." Buffy stood with a yawn and prepared to go.

"How many?" Harry asked suddenly at her retreating back. She turned to face him with a confused frown. "How many friends of yours have... died?" Suddenly he wasn't sure he should have asked her at all. Her expression seemed to close down and for a moment, he saw in her what vampires must see when they faced her in a fight: a face that said she would never give up, never give in, and always meet the challenge before her.

"Too many," she said only.

"And... and if a friend ever turned, if you thought they'd betrayed you, what would you do then?" Harry asked, not really sure where the question had come from.

She looked him in the eyes unflinchingly and said, "I would kill him, if I had to. Kill him before he killed me or worse, innocent people."

"You've already done it," Harry said with a sudden realization.

"I have," Buffy said, turning away from him once more, "and I'd do it again."

Harry stared after her for several minutes before standing up to go to bed. He didn't feel better, not at all, but he thought he understood a little of what Buffy had been trying to tell him.

**********

He awoke several hours later, desperately needing a drink of water. He sat up and shoved the bedcovers off, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. Groggily, feeling as if he were still asleep, he padded out of the room and into the hall, making his way to the bathroom door down the corridor. Running his hand through his hair, he pushed open the door and found himself not in the bathroom, as he'd expected, but in the club from his dreams.

A slow song played over the club's speakers--there was no band tonight. On the dance floor couples swayed gently to the music, pressing close to each other. Harry saw a tall brunette girl being dragged reluctantly onto the dance floor by a pale boy about his own age and smiled a little. The girl had obviously been convinced somehow to dance against her will.

How are you feeling? Do you feel okay? 'Cause I don't! The song was loud in his ears and Harry realized suddenly that somehow, this wasn't his dream at all. He'd been in other people's memories enough times to recognize the feeling, and he knew it now. Everything was hazy and dull in the way it never was in his dreams. Before he really understood what was happening--how could he be in someone else's dream?--the doors to the club swung open with a bang and several people filed into the dim room. No, not people, Harry thought to himself with a sickening lurch in his stomach--vampires.

Then the club went suddenly dark and the music cut out. Several of the dancers began grumbling, but stopped immediately when a man leapt up onto the stage and began speaking.

"Ladies and gentlemen! There is no cause for alarm. Actually, there is cause for alarm. It just won't do any good."

His face had the ridged, distorted appearance of a vampire, and Harry could see a strange symbol painted on the man's forehead in what he was sure must be blood. Several people screamed on seeing his face, and the dark haired girl Harry had seen earlier said in confusion, "I thought there wasn't any band tonight."

The boy she'd been dancing with had changed, Harry saw--he was a vampire, too. The vampire on stage spoke again.

"This is a glorious night! It is also the last one any of you shall ever see. Bring me the first."

Another vampire shoved a tall, powerfully built man onto the stage. He stumbled and tried to talk, clearly not understanding the situation.

"What do you guys want, man, huh? You want money? Man, what's wrong with your faces?"

Harry watched in horror as the vampire killed the man quickly and without fanfare, then demanded another victim. A teenage girl was shoved onto the stage next, and all Harry could do was watch. He knew, somehow, that he couldn't do a thing to save her, or any of these people. Like the other memories he'd visited, he was neither seen nor heard, and could only observe. The vampire drained the girl until she struggled no more and let her body fall onto the stage.

A blond vampire approached the brunette girl and her vampire companion. She took the girl's arm and began tugging her toward the stage.

"This one's mine!" the boy said possessively. The brunette looked both confused and horrified; it was clear to Harry she had no idea which fate would be worse.

"They're all for the Master," the blond told him with a fanged smile, firmly pulling the girl toward the stage.

"I don't get one?" the boy asked petulantly, his eyes tracking the girl's progress toward the stage.

"I feel the Master's strength growing!" the lead vampire yelled from the stage. "I feel him rising. Every soul brings him closer! I need another! Tonight is his ascension. Tonight will be history at its end! Yours is a glorious sacrifice! Degradation most holy. What? No volunteers?!"

The blond vampire shoved the girl onto the stage. "Here's a pretty one," she said.

The vampire grabbed the girl and brought her close to him, trailing a finger down the side of her face. She screamed and tried to back away, but he held her tightly. Suddenly something came tumbling down from the balcony level above--a vampire, Harry saw with surprise. The lead vampire watched his minion fall with sudden interest, but looked up immediately when a voice called down from above.

"Oh I'm sorry," Buffy said from the railing, looking innocently confused, "were you in the middle of something?"

"You!" the vampire growled in excitement and anger.

"You didn't think I'd miss this, did you?" Buffy asked with a sardonic smile.

"I hoped you'd come," the vampire said.

"Be right down," Buffy replied. She backed away from the railing momentarily before running at it and grabbing onto it, twisting her body over the metal bar before falling several feel to land gracefully on the pool table below. Immediately she was attacked by the vampire she'd kicked over the balcony. She grabbed up a pool cue and dusted him easily.

"Okay, Vessel Boy," she said, taking off her jacket. "You want blood?"

"I want yours! Only yours!" he replied, shoving the brunette away from him.

Buffy shrugged as if it didn't matter to her one way or another.

"Works for me," she said.

They began fighting in earnest, but Harry was distracted from the two of them by the boy he'd seen before. He'd reclaimed the brunette girl, who was struggling to get away from him. Another boy approached them from behind, stake held high.

"Jesse, I know there's still a part of you in there."

Jesse laughed and let go of the girl, who escaped as fast as she could.

"Okay... Let's deal with this. Jesse was an excruciating loser who couldn't get a date with anyone in the sighted community! Look at me. I'm a new man!"

On the stage, Harry thought Buffy was a goner. The vampire held her tightly from behind, and was preparing to bite.

"Master! Taste of this and be free!" he cried out, bending toward the Slayer.

Buffy responded by slamming the back of her head into the vampire's face, knocking him off of her and into the wall behind them.

"How'd it taste?" she quipped.

Meanwhile, Jesse the vampire had grabbed his friend, who held a stake to his heart.

"Ooo! All right. Put me out of my misery. You don't have the guts," he snarled.

Just then a dancer running by to escape the club bumped the boy, whose stake plunged into Jesse's chest. On the stage, Buffy grabbed the empty microphone stand and held it like a javelin, as if she was preparing to throw.

"You forget," the vampire said with a smile, "metal can't hurt me."

"But there's something you forgot about too!" Buffy said triumphantly, hefting the metal in her hand. "Sunrise!" And with that she threw the stand high at the window above the stage, sending shards of glass crashing to the floor in a haze of light. The vampire cringed, covering his face with his hands while Buffy grabbed up her fallen stake and impaled it into the vampire's back.

"It's in about nine hours, moron!" she said as the vampire stumbled toward the edge of the stage. He took another faltering step before tumbling off the stage. He was ashes before he hit the ground.

The rest of the vampires scampered, until only Buffy, the dark haired boy, Willow and Giles were left.

"I take it it's over," Giles said, approaching the stage and the Slayer.

"Did we win?" Willow asked. It was strange, Harry thought. Willow looked so much younger, more carefree. Her hair was long and her eyes had none of the oldness in them, and none of the power, either.

"Well, we averted the apocalypse," Buffy said. "I give us points for that."

"One thing's for sure," the boy said. "Nothing's ever going to be the same..."

*********

Harry and Ron went to visit Hermione again the next day. Ginny seemed to want to accompany them, but as if by unspoken agreement, they both ignored her and refused to speak to her until she went up to her room and slammed the door behind her.

"Good riddance," Ron muttered, glaring at the stairway.

Lupin and Tonks had come to escort them to St. Mungo's. They took the Underground, and Harry stared blankly at the advertisements as the train rumbled along, lost in thought about the dream he'd had. He was certain he must have somehow been inside Buffy's dream, although how that was possible, he couldn't say. It hadn't been like his dreams of Voldemort. It hadn't been a vision precisely, but a memory of something past, and he hadn't been Buffy, the way he was Voldemort in those dreams. He'd been an observer. An intruder, he thought a little guiltily. He was startled out of his reverie by Lupin's low voice in his ear.

"Did you hear that NewsWitch's report on the Witching Hour last night?" he asked.

Harry nodded. "She mentioned Sirius," he said. He didn't look at Lupin. He wasn't sure he even wanted to be talking about this.

"He hasn't officially been cleared by the Ministry," Lupin murmured softly, as if he didn't want any one else to hear. "I'm surprised she did that."

Harry shrugged and Lupin seemed to get the idea--he didn't want to talk. They sat in silence for the rest of the journey, Harry staring out the window at the flashing lights of the tunnel. His thoughts turned inexorably toward Ginny, as they often did these days, but Harry was simply too tired to push them away.

He knew logically that the attacks had not been her fault. He knew that she would never have knowingly passed information to Death Eaters or put their friends in danger. And yet...perhaps she had done so knowingly, but not willfully. If she really was under some sort of Love Potion, perhaps Malfoy had a lot more control over her than they had originally thought. It was one thing to snog someone you were supposed to hate and defend his evilness to your friends; it was quite another to put your friends and family in danger because of it. Harry wanted to believe that she was under some kind of spell that was controlling her and making her do things she wouldn't normally do. But at the same time he couldn't quite convince himself of that.

The facts were against her, he thought miserably. Her transformation from Slytherin-hating, cheerful, friendly Ginny to morose, moody, angry all the time, distant Ginny had been sudden and complete. The only time in the past few months that Harry thought he was seeing the real Ginny was when she was yelling at him, but even that wasn't right. The old Ginny had never yelled at him; she'd snapped at him a few times, called him an idiot a fair number as well, but she'd never yelled or cried. And she'd never kissed him.

Harry felt his face burn at the thought of the kiss they'd shared. It had been so brief, and then she'd yelled at him again, sounding almost like Moaning Myrtle. Go away! If it hadn't been for the Death Eater attack on them that night, Harry could almost make himself believe that she was under some simple Love Spell or even, as unlikely as he thought it, that she actually liked Malfoy for some unfathomable reason. But the only way the Death Eaters could have possibly found them was if someone told them where to look. And Harry had no doubt that Ginny had passed that information to Draco Malfoy. Whether she knew about the impending attack or not was irrelevant; her actions bespoke of more than simple naiveté and a misplaced sense of trust. Harry had done a lot of research on Love Spells and potions over the past few days. While something like that may have made Ginny act strangely and certainly explained her sudden liking for Malfoy, Love Spells simply weren't powerful enough to make a person do something their conscience refused to tolerate. Even if Ginny was under a Love Spell, it didn't excuse her actions. She had still knowingly put her friends and family in danger, and Harry wasn't sure he would ever forgive her for that.

More than that, he thought as he watched Ron fidget in the seat across from him, he wasn't sure what he was going to do about it. She was a traitor--that fact was glaringly obvious after the attack at Giles' home. But she was also Ron's sister, and then there was the fact that he had no proof of any of this. While Ron might be willing to believe his sister was under a Love Spell, he would never truly believe she was a traitor. He had acted so callously about it before, as if Percy's decision to side with the Ministry last year had hardened him against betrayal. But Harry knew that if Ron was presented with hard evidence of Ginny's treachery, he would refuse to see reason. Harry would probably do the same thing in his situation. If he'd had a sister, he liked to believe he would have defended her until the end.

When they finally exited the Underground into the bright, glaring sunlight and the frosty chill of the city, Harry was almost relieved to be shaken from his thoughts. They approached the closed storefront cautiously, waiting for the strange, bare mannequin to nod surreptitiously before they disappeared through the glass window.

They proceeded up to the Severe Spell Damage ward, Harry trailing a little behind everyone else. He wanted to see Hermione--was desperate to make sure she was all right--but at the same time he dreaded the encounter. Hermione would no doubt know the names of the four other students who had died the night she'd been attacked, and Harry wasn't sure he was ready to know. He only had a few days left of holiday and he almost wished he could remain ignorant until then and simply try to enjoy his remaining time of relative freedom.

But it was not to be. While Lupin and Tonks headed down to the third floor to speak to Hermione's parents, who had finally been revived late the night before, Hermione stared at both of them with stricken eyes before bursting into tears.

"Oh, it's just too awful!" she sobbed as Harry and Ron exchanged panicked looks over her head. Harry patted her on the shoulder. "Colin and Euan, and that Huffelpuff Zacharias Smith, Megan Jones, and, and Terry... This is all my fault! It should've been me that, that... it should've been me!"

Harry swallowed hard and continued to pat Hermione's shoulder, but inwardly he felt as if the chill from outside had seeped deep into his bones. He felt completely frozen by her words. He didn't know who Euan was, he thought that maybe there was a younger Gryffindor student named Euan, but the rest... He hadn't even known Zacharias Smith was a Muggleborn. Harry immediately felt guilty for ever having thought Zacharias was annoying or snooty. And Terry... Harry had sparred with him in Defense class several times last term. He had been a member of the D.A. from the beginning, had been one of the students out on the lawn conjuring Patronuses during the dementor attack last Halloween. And now... now he was dead.

It hit him all at once. Terry, Colin, and the rest. They were well and truly gone. He'd never see them at D.A. meetings again, they'd never learn the new hexes and jinxes he'd researched for next term, they'd never play Quidditch again, or have a meal in the Great Hall. Harry's face felt strangely wet, until he realized with a start that he was crying. He hadn't cried for months, not since that day in Dumbledore's office last June, not since Sirius...

Hermione and Ron were staring at him now. Harry tried to turn away, embarrassed, but Hermione threw herself at him, wrapping her arms around his neck and sobbing into his Weasley jumper uncontrollably. After several long, tense minutes in which Harry resisted the urge to let his tears flow freely as he pressed his face into Hermione's shoulder, she seemed to calm down until she pulled away with a sad sigh.

"I... I don't know what to say," Harry attempted to comfort her lamely. He really didn't know what to say. He wished that he could break down like that, just throw himself on someone and sob out all the awful feelings building up inside his chest. Hermione, despite his useless words, looked a bit better.

"Oh Harry," she said, shaking her head, "there's nothing to say."

"Hermione," Ron said, fidgeting in his chair by her bed, "it's not your fault. You know that, right? I don't... you can't go 'round saying it should've been you!" Ron's voice sounded strangely hoarse, and he was staring at Hermione with intensely bright eyes. Harry had the uncomfortable feeling that he was somehow intruding on his friends.

"No," Hermione replied, "I know. It's just..." Her voice dropped to a whisper, so that Harry had to lean closer to hear her, "I know why I didn't. Why they didn't, I mean."

Harry stared at Hermione, shocked. "But yesterday you said..."

"I know what I said, Harry." Her eyes darted around the room, checking to make sure that Lupin and Tonks hadn't yet returned from talking to her parents. "I lied."

"You lied to my mum?" Ron asked, nonplussed.

"Your mum will know by now. No, it wasn't her I was lying to. It was Ginny."

"But--" Ron began, but Hermione cut him off quickly.

"No Ron. I don't want to argue about this. I've got my reasons. Anyway, don't you want to hear my story? The real story, this time?" Ron looked like he wanted to argue even if she didn't, but gave in with a shrug.

"Well I got lucky, in a manner of speaking. The Death Eater who cursed me, the one I didn't manage to disarm? It was Snape, of course."

"He cursed you?" Harry hissed, anger overcoming all the pain and aching grief he'd been feeling only moments before at the loss of his friends. "I'll kill him!"

"Honestly, Harry! Think for a moment, would you? I'm alive because of Snape, not despite him. He cursed me, yes. And it was a powerful curse at that. You saw what it did to me. But he also risked a great deal convincing the others not to kill me outright. And then when they wanted to take me as bait, he Cunfunded them both and told them that the Aurors had just Apparated outside the house. He somehow made them see Aurors out on the front lawn. And then he cursed me."

"What'd he do that for?" Ron demanded angrily. Harry was wondering the same thing. "Why bother to curse you then, when they'd already seen they had to leave immediately?"

"To cover himself, of course. I don't blame him, Ron, and neither should you!" she whispered furiously. "He risked a lot to save me, and we need him in there. We need them to keep trusting him, keep feeding him information."

"If he's so bloody important," Harry said, his eyes flashing, "then why didn't he know this was coming? He was in on it, he was part of it! Surely he could've given us some warning, and then maybe Colin and the rest would still be alive!"

"Lower your voice, Harry, someone will hear you!" Hermione said, looking around the ward nervously. The Healer in charge gazed at them, one eyebrow raised in question, but shrugged and turned away when Hermione smiled cheerfully and waved at him. "Anyway," she continued, "we don't know why he didn't say anything. Maybe he didn't know. Voldemort works in secret, Harry. The Death Eaters don't even know each other's names, some of them. He probably doesn't go broadcasting his plans for world domination to every minion who kisses his robes!"

Harry tried to quell his anger, tried to listen when Hermione told them about her parents' condition, and what was being done to treat them. He forced a smile when the MediWitch on call announced to them that visiting hours were over, but as Hermione would be discharged the next day, they'd be able to see her all they liked then. With her parents still in the hospital, Lupin and Tonks decided in whispers on the Underground fifteen minutes later, Hermione would have to stay at the safe house for rest of the Christmas holiday. Harry stared out the window as the train rumbled through the blackness of the tunnels, unable to stop the tide of anger and hatred he felt rising inside him. Anger at Ginny's betrayal, at Snape's impotence, but most of all at Voldemort. Harry pictured Voldemort's grotesque, reptilian face in his mind's eye, feeling as if his hatred would blind him with its intensity.

**********