The Man With No Shadow

Chapter Eight: Promises

***

Harry awoke with a start, springing to his feet as he reached for his wand. It was not in his pocket, and for the briefest of moments his Auror instincts kicked in so that he tensed like a cat poised to spring. A moment later, he remembered where he was -- and with whom -- and relaxed.

But as to that last -- where was Hermione? The place on the couch where she had sat sleeping next to him was empty. The answer came immediately, reminding him why he had awakened in the first place. The delicious aroma of bacon was wafting from the kitchen, accompanied now (with the full awakening of his senses) by the familiar sizzling sound. Harry peered around the edge of the doorway to find Hermione standing before the electric stove. She was wearing a bathrobe -- one of his, he quickly noted -- and she was prodding what could only be bacon slices in Harry's largest cast iron skillet. Harry was momentarily surprised that she had found so many of his implements with such apparent ease after an absence of three years. But he remembered at once that he had never been one to change a system that had proven itself over time. Everything in his flat had been kept in the same exact place almost since the day he moved in, and Hermione's nigh flawless memory had done the rest.

Nodding at the bacon in a satisfied manner, Hermione turned toward the refrigerator and opened it. She closed the door with her bare foot, her hands balancing four eggs. Looking up, she saw Harry and smiled.

"Scrambled, right?" she said, her tone certain despite the inquisitive inflection. Without waiting for Harry to reply, Hermione cracked the eggs into a bowl sitting on the short counter shouldering the sink (everything in the cramped little kitchen was by definition either small or short, if not both). She caught up a wooden spoon and began to beat the eggs mercilessly. "Go ahead and shower," she said without removing her eyes from her task. "Breakfast should be ready when you finish up."

There being no cogent reply to that statement, Harry turned toward the bathroom, one hand fumbling with the buttons of his shirt, the other rubbing the back of his stiff neck contemplatively.

The hot water on his face and chest relaxed Harry even as it sharpened his senses. The first thought that came to mind was a wish that he hadn't slept quite so long, that Hermione's awakening had roused him as well (a fine Auror he, to sleep on unawares when she had awakened beside him -- though perhaps, his vanity argued, he could place a fair measure of the blame on the wine). With a wolfish smile, he imagined the look on Hermione's face had he stepped into the shower just after her. Surprised? Unquestionably. Pleased? Uncertain, but, given the last few days, entirely possible.

Aroused?

He grunted, his eyes angling downward as he turned off the tap mechanically. A thought like that was likely to get him into trouble at the breakfast table, Muggle clothing being far less adept at hiding certain parts of the male anatomy than loose-fitting wizards' robes.

His hair still damp (his wand was still in the parlor, and he didn't trust himself not to set his hair alight by attempting a Drying Charm by hand with his mind occupied by "other matters"), Harry pulled on a rumpled shirt and a pair of faded jeans and exited his bedroom. Rounding the corner, he found the table where they had dined the night before laden with a breakfast that made his stomach growl in anticipation. The plate of bacon was abetted by another filled with hash brown potatoes. His eggs sat on his plate, shouldered by two squares of buttered toast. Hermione was filling a glass with orange juice. She drew the pitcher back and, straightening, spied Harry.

"Perfect timing," she said. "If you'd been this punctual in school, I'd never have had to nag you as much as I did."

"Oh, you'd have found plenty of other reasons," Harry grinned as he sat down informally. Hermione joined him, and they both tucked in without delay. This meal proved decidedly less formal than last night's dinner. It was a toss-up which of them was the more voracious, and Harry smothered a grin behind a mouthful of egg and potatoes as Hermione attacked her breakfast with a gusto Ron would have admired. It touched Harry beyond words that Hermione could abandon pretense and decorum in his presence and "let her hair down," as the saying went. When they were together, it was as if they were the only two people in the world. And that was exactly how Harry liked it.

As the excellent breakfast gradually sated Harry's hunger, he found an appetite of a different stripe asserting itself as he watched Hermione across the table. Whenever she would lean forward to snatch a piece of bacon from the platter, or heft the pitcher to refill her glass, her robe would part slightly, revealing the tempting inner curves of her milky breasts. A part of Harry wanted to leap across the table, jerk open Hermione's robe, and feast on her feminine charms like a starving wolf. He shifted nervously, grateful that the table hid his lower portion from Hermione's sight, and wishing again for the obfuscating comfort of wizards' robes.

When the table was as desolate as a Gringotts vault beset by a horde of nifflers, Hermione levitated the dishes to the sink and cleansed them with a wave of her wand. That done, she turned to Harry, a guilty smile on her face.

"I was planning for us to spend the day together," she said apologetically. "But I suddenly remembered that I promised my mum and dad that I'd spend today with them. It's my first Saturday back and all, and they've arranged for their associates at the Dental Clinic to handle their patients for them. I promised them the day I arrived, and, well...being with you the last few days kind of drove it out of my mind."

This confession made Harry's spirits soar so high that it took all of his Auror training not to allow his elation to show on his face. Don't rush, he told himself.

"I wouldn't have it any other way," Harry said. "If there's anyone who's missed you as much as I have, it would be them. In fact, why don't you spend tomorrow with them, too? I'll see you at work on Monday. We'll...have lunch together."

With an excited squeal, Hermione fell upon Harry and kissed him. The softness of her scarcely-concealed breasts against his chest was like a match flame touching a fuse, and he was grateful when she pulled back, her face beaming, before that fuse could touch off the powder keg of his long-suppressed desire. Spinning about, Hermione picked up the clothes she had worn the night before, which hung across the back of the couch at drunken angles. As Tonks had vouchsafed at the Ministry, Hermione had excellent taste in clothing, and, being Muggle-born, she exercised the option to dress accordingly when occasion warranted. Harry's eyes lingered on the slinky dress, the satin pumps, the filmy slip. The sight of the charcoal-colored stockings dripping from her fingers like liquid smoke, and the matching pair of midnight-black bikini briefs, made his heart skip a beat. If he'd imagined those hidden vestments in as much detail last night, he might not have been responsible for his actions. Better -- far better, he thought devoutly -- that he had not known.

"Thank you, Harry," Hermione said softly. With a smile illuminating her face like a minature sun, she Disapparated.

"Not a moment too soon," Harry mumbled as his eyes fell to the front of his jeans, which were on the verge of losing the battle against his impending arousal.

When his thoughts cleared, Harry was grateful for something else. Through the preceding night and the following morning, Hermione had not said a word in regard to Harry's fearful encounter in the alley two nights ago. That she suspected him of being less than truthful, both that night and, later, in his report (which she could easily have read, a copy having been forwarded to MLE), he did not doubt. One could sooner fool a robin into believing that December was May than deceive Hermione.

But she knew. If she did not know everything, as was certain in his mind, still she knew too much. She knew that Harry, his denials notwithstanding, had recognized the face of the vampire whose fangs had nearly spilled his blood on the stones of that dark alley.

"Snape," Harry said.

How it had happened, he could not say, could not make the merest guess. But he was not mistaken. The face of the vampire terrorizing London was that of Severus Snape, former Potions Master of Hogwarts.

Did Dumbledore know, or at least suspect? Harry thought not. Surely the old wizard would have come forth immediately when news of the attacks reached his ears. Unlike most of his fellows, Dumbledore read the Muggle newspapers as well as the Daily Prophet, knowing that happenings of supernatural import often lurked under the facade of Muggle newsprint. (It was Dumbledore's example that had inspired Arthur Weasley to institute the same practice throughout the Ministry, not limiting it to departments like MLE.) Dumbledore would surely have read about the attacks, and if he had suspected the perpetrator's identity, he would have wasted no time in conveying his suspicions to the Minister. Whatever excuses the one-time Potions Master had made for leaving Hogwarts must have satisfied the Headmaster. It was probable -- indeed, a virtual certainty -- that Harry was the only one who knew the truth. Any other who by ill fortune had seen the fiend's face had died ere passing that news to another. No doubt Geoffrey knew, lying in his stone coffin under the flowing waters of the Thames. But he would be doing no telling.

But Harry now wrestled anew with the quandry that had reared itself that night, and risen any number of times in his thoughts and dreams in the days since. Having marked his enemy, he had made no effort to enlighten his fellow Aurors, though that news would undoubtedly spell the swift end to the threat stalking the London streets. Why had he kept the news to himself? In his heart, he knew. He had thought it just now. Swift end.

"No," Harry grunted, his eyes slits of green fire. "No swift end for you, Snape. After what you did to me..." Harry drew a long, slow breath, his body shivering as though a chill breeze had swept the room through an open door. "After what you did to Sirius...you don't die quickly. I'm going to make you pay, Snape. That's a promise. Merlin help me, I'm going to make you suffer before you die.

"Before I kill you."

*

Monday at the Ministry proceeded without incident (notwithstanding a waffle iron confiscated by the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts division that had run amuck and bit the nose off a witch from Wizengamot Administration Services). Auror Division was biding its time, as was MLE. Tomorrow night another task force would go forth in search of the vampire. That, at least, was the word on the memo sent from Madam Bones and quoted by Kingsley Shacklebolt that very morning. For his part, Harry had plans of his own, and any resemblance between them and official Ministry procedure was purely incidental.

Harry sat in a chair within the confines (an appropriate description if ever Harry had seen one) of Hermione's cubicle, which was smaller even than Harry's. She was just finishing up her day's work before they both left for the day. Casting a wary eye about for any whose ears might overhear his words, Harry said in a low, casual voice, "Has Madam Bones let you inside the Situation Room yet?"

"No," Hermione replied as she touched her finished report with her wand and sent it winging its way to the office of the director of MLE. "I'm a bit too far down on the totem pole, I'm afraid."

"I think," Harry said carefully, "if I could get a look at the Situation Map, it might help me with a theory I've been working on."

"Oh?" Hermione said, her interest piqued. "Have you told Kingsley?"

Harry sighed inwardly. It was precisely the sort of question Hermione could be expected to ask, given her love of rules and procedure. "No," he replied, quoting from his prepared text. "If I'm wrong, I'll look like a naive rookie -- which I am, of course," he added with a smile, which Hermione returned. Withdrawing his smile promptly, Harry said, "I think the pattern of the attacks is the key to bringing the house down around the bugger's ears. I have access to our own situation board, but that's bloody useless here. With MLE in charge, all we get is the details of the individual missions. The whole picture, along with any pattern it might conceal, will be on the MLE board. If I could just get a look at it, I'd know if my theory were valid, or just so much rubbish. If I'm right, it could mean a promotion. And if I've missed the mark, no harm done. It all depends on what I find on the map."

Harry paused to let his words sink in. Hermione's eyes were deep and thoughtful.

"I don't suppose," Harry said with measured care, "you can get us into the MLE Situation Room so I can have a look at the map?"

Harry paused again. The Quaffle was now in Hermione's quadrant of the pitch. Would she grab it and dart for the goal rings? Or would she bat it back in his face with a metaphorical Beater's bat like a rogue Bludger?

Hermione's eyes drifted slowly across the offices, easily visible over the partition of her cubicle. Satisfied that they were unobserved, she allowed her eyes to fall on Harry, noting for the first time that his robes were not quite so loose and flowing around his waist as they had been during their lunch encounter. With a sly smile, she said in a low, conspiratorial voice, "It might be possible. It would all depend on our not being seen, wouldn't it?"

Her smile sharpened, and Harry returned the gesture as his hands idly caressed the bulge which was his Invisibility Cloak where it lay folded beneath his robes.

With a nod of comprehension, Hermione rose and leaned over the edge of her partition. A wizard sat in the far corner of the chamber, his right hand nervously tapping the point of a quill upon his desk. He appeared to be at least ten years older than Harry or Hermione. If Harry was any judge, the wizard looked to be just senior enough to possess full security clearance. There was also a definite vacuum about him, hinting that he was far from the sharpest spike on the portcullis. Unlike Auror Division, MLE had a fair amount of desk-bound personnel in addition to field agents, and the former resembled the latter only incidentally, rather like hedgehogs amongst knarls. Harry sat back and watched in a detached manner, hiding his amusement behind his stoic Auror's mask, as Hermione addressed her co-worker over her cubicle wall.

"Oh, Denis, would you do me a kindness?"

His air of vacant concentration evaporating, Denis stood up and smiled. "Anythin', luv," he said. Harry swallowed a growl. Was every wizard in MLE flirting with Hermione?

"Would you pop into the Situation Room and see if Amelia left her umbrella in there? It looks like rain, and she's been a bit forgetful lately. I'd check myself, but I'm not authorized."

"Right y'are," Denis said smoothly (a bit too smoothly for Harry's liking). "Be back in arf a mo'."

When Denis rose from his chair and exited his cubicle, Harry nodded to himself appreciatively before turning and exchanging a smile with Hermione. The wizard could not have been a pennyweight less than fifteen stone, which mass ill-suited a height approximating that of Hermione. The moment Denis vanished around the corner, Harry jerked out his Cloak and flung it over his shoulders. Blowing Hermione a kiss, he covered his head and loped invisibly after the rotund MLE employee.

Standing at last before the magical guardian of the MLE Situation Room, Denis said in a clear voice, "Denis Stobblehouse."

The face on the door came alive and looked him up and down before repeating, "Denis Stobblehouse." As Harry expected, the door was compelled to open to its full width to accomodate Denis' girth. Denis closed the door behind him, and Harry waited patiently. The wizard reappeared a minute later, empty-handed, as Harry knew he would be. He had seen Madam Bones any number of times entering on a rainy morning entirely dry, surrounded by a water-repelling Charm; she had about as much use for an umbrella as Harry had for an instruction book on how to fly a broomstick.

Now, as Denis exited the room, Hermione's shrewd plan would bear its fruit. A slim wizard, such as Harry, standing in for Denis could have slipped out and closed the door in an instant, leaving no space whereby another might enter unobtrusively. But Denis' girth required that he swing the door wide before turning about to grasp the handle to push it closed. For a space of perhaps five seconds, the doorway stood as wide and inviting as the Great Hall at Hogwarts. Thanking Merlin for his rubber-soled shoes, Harry slipped easily through the opening before Denis closed the door behind him.

Inside the room, Harry waited with the patience cultivated in him by three years of Auror training. When Denis' heavy footfalls faded into silence, Harry listened intently until he heard light, stealthy footsteps approach the door and stop before it.

"Harry?" Hermione whispered.

Pushing the door open a crack, Harry said softly, "Stand back." He saw her move to the side, and he eased the door open. Peering around the edge, he saw that the rudimentary face on the door was imobile and insensate. Nominally, it would come alive only by voice identification. Since he was sure that it had not been enchanted to recognize someone as newly-hired as Hermione, it took no notice of her, even though she had spoken in its presence. She could have stood there all night announcing herself without getting so much as a flicker of response from the guardian of the door.

There was, of course, a second course of action that would activate the Charmed door: forcible entry. Hermione had wisely refrained from so much as touching the door with the hem of her robes. As far as it was concerned, she did not exist. And, as had the door to the Situation Room in Auror Division, it likewise took no note of Harry when he pushed it open to admit Hermione. He was, after all, already inside; and as the door had detected no sign of forced entry, its limited intelligence reasoned that he could only have entered by legitimate means. Harry was certain that whatever magical defenses the door possessed had thus been completely circumvented. Moreover, the room bore the requisite security spells standard in all such facilities (including a Soundproofing Spell and an Imperturbable Charm), lest secret strategies fall upon unauthorized ears without the door. Once inside, he and Hermione could speak freely without fear of being overheard from without. It was perfect plan, executed with a cunning any of the Marauders would have applauded. Harry could almost hear his godfather crowing, "Your dad would be proud of you, Harry." In a way, it was as if Sirius himself were lending his hand to Harry's, an altogether fitting scenario in Harry's judgment.

Harry eased the door closed as soon as Hermione was inside. They ignited a couple of torches with their wands, after which Harry made straight for the Situation Map dominating the room. Like the one in Auror Division, its surface was blank, its information carefully cloaked behind nigh unbreakable concealment spells. This did not deter Harry. He did not fancy the Ministry as being creative enough to use different secrecy spells on maps performing essentially the same task, regardless of where they were placed. Having been cleared to enter his own division's Situation Room, Harry knew the tricky rune which, drawn above the map with his wand, would reveal its secrets. It should work as well on this map as on the one in his own division.

It did.

Harry and Hermione stared at the map in silent concentration. Hers was merely the product of her intense thirst for knowledge; unlike Harry, she was not looking for anything specific.

"Look here," Harry said, pointing with his finger to five blood-red dots on the map of London that had appeared on the broad parchment surface.

"Are those the scenes where the attacks took place?" she asked. Harry did not reply, the answer being too obvious to require verification. "I can see why the going has been so difficult. With so few attacks, and being so widely-spaced, it's difficult to make out a pattern."

That was true enough, if only on the surface of things. London was a sprawling city, and the rough circle formed by the five dots was many miles wide. Finding a Muggle adversary in that expanse would have been difficult enough; running down a supernatural foe would be a nightmare. But Harry was privvy to a subtext of which Hermione, and everyone else in either of their divisions, remained ignorant. Using his finger (his wand likely to disturb the magical image in a way that might be detected by MLE tomorrow), Harry traced imaginary lines across the map, crossing the surface again and again.

"Yes," he muttered. "I knew it had to be."

"What?" Hermione said, regarding Harry intently. "Do you think you know something that can help?"

Harry's expression closed as swiftly as a door slammed by a strong cross-wind. Hermione's reaction was equally swift.

"What are you not telling me, Harry?" She paused, allowing him time to speak. When he did not respond, she repeated, "What are you not telling me?"

There was nothing else for it. Out of respect -- and more, out of the love he felt for her -- he could not dissemble further. She had asked a direct question, and he could do no less than answer with equal directness.

"I know who the vampire is."

The roundness of Hermione's eyes revealed that she had, indeed, suspected this. But hearing the admission from Harry's own lips was still a shock.

"Why didn't you tell me?" After a moment, she amended, "Why didn't you tell Kingsley, or Madam Bones?" A chill played along Hermione's spine. The answer to that question was undoubtedly rooted in the answer to the question. "Who is it?" she asked in a distant, hollow voice.

Harry took a slow breath, steeling himself for the tempest he was sure his answer would inspire.

"Snape."

Hermione's mouth fell open.

"You're certain? There's no possibility -- "

"I'm not mistaken," Harry said gravely. "It's him. I looked directly into his eyes. It was Snape."

A sepulchral silence descended over the chamber. The flickering torchlight danced over two imobile faces as over carven stone. The silence was broken at last by Hermione, in a ghostly voice that rose scarcely above a whisper.

"Don't do it, Harry."

"How do you know what I intend to do?" Harry returned stiffly, instantly regretting his brusque tone.

"I know you," Hermione said with forced calm. "I know how you were at Hogwarts. You had that same look in your eye when you wanted to go off and fight Voldemort, and damn the consequences -- and your friends." She regretted those last words instantly, but it was too late to take them back. Harry turned slowly, his eyes smoldering emerald flame.

"I could tell you," he said evenly, "that I'm doing this to gain promotion, just as I said earlier. That's what I'll tell Kingsley for the record, if it comes to that. He might even believe me. Like most anyone in government, he's no stranger to ambition. There's little enough opportunity to distinguish oneself nowadays, not like in Kingsley's day when Voldemort and his Death Eaters were terrorizing the length and breadth of Britain. And Tonks will back me up, since she got her promotion under similar circumstances during Voldemort's second reign. But you deserve the truth."

Hermione stood perfectly still as Harry began to pace back and forth before the map of London.

"You remember when we faced Voldemort for the last time." It was a statement rather than a question. Hermione nodded. "You remember how Voldemort tricked you into wearing that Cursed necklace." Another nod. "And even though you were unconscious at the time, you know how and why Voldemort's plan failed."

"Sirius," Hermione said at last.

"Sirius," Harry said. "From beyond the Veil, he came back in the form of a Grim. He tore the brother necklace from Voldemort's throat, kept him occupied long enough for me to free you so we could face him together."

Hermione did not understand how this account applied to present circumstances. Harry saw the bewilderment in her eyes. She thought for a moment that he was endeavoring to smile. If so, the attempt bore no fruit.

"When it was all over," Harry resumed, "I put it out of my mind. Somehow, Sirius had reached out from the Other Side to save you, and in so doing, save me, and the entire wizarding world. It...was almost...closure. If I couldn't have Sirius back, at least I knew he was alive and well, somewhere. I still would have given my right hand to have him back, as he was -- " Harry stared at his open hand, remembering Wormtail severing his own right hand in the cause of bringing Voldemort back. It was an action Harry would have duplicated in his turn without a thought. "But after that night, I knew he was still watching over me...discharging his godfatherly duties...honoring my parents' wishes.

"And then, just when I thought I'd made peace with it all...Dumbledore came to me."

Hermione's attention sharpened. This was a new ingredient to an otherwise familiar potion.

"Everyone had always assumed that Sirius was lost forever," Harry said. "No one who'd gone through the portal had ever returned. Many had tried to go through the Veil to bring a lost soul back. None ever returned, and after a time no one tried again.

"But Sirius' manifestation changed the equation. Being a dog-Animagus had allowed him to project his spirit into a Grim and send it from the other world into ours. No one had ever done such a thing. There were some who put forth theories about such things, but it was all just pedantry -- until that night in Little Hangleton, when Sirius turned fancy into fact."

"A Grim can pass freely from one realm to the next," Hermione said distantly, as if quoting text. "By 'thumbing a lift,' as it were, Sirius squeezed through the crack in the door separating our two worlds. But a Grim's existence on this side of the barrier is tenuous at best. Ultimately, it must return whence it came."

"Which means that Sirius couldn't stay in our world," Harry said. "But the very fact that he returned at all, even for so brief a time, was proof that the barrier is not impassable! It was always thought that the door only swung one way. But Sirius proved that night that it can swing the other way. By passing through that night, he left the door ajar, so to speak. But after that, there was nothing more he could do. Not from his side."

A light sprang into Hermione's eyes. "Dumbledore," she said. "He found a way? A way to open the door from our side?"

"Yes," Harry said.

Hermione was startled to note the grimness in his voice. Should that not be good news? She knew there was more to Harry's tale, nor was she long in the waiting for its revelation.

"Since that night," Harry said, "Dumbledore had been searching the world for a spell he'd heard about from one of his professors at Hogwarts. This was more than 150 years ago, you understand, so he could be forgiven if his memory wasn't as clear on the subject as might be."

"But he found it at last," Hermione said tentatively.

"He found it," Harry said. "It was old magic, and dark in its way. It was a sort of second cousin to the ceremony that brought Voldemort back. In order for it to work, it required certain...sacrifices." Following an ominous pause, Harry said, "Like Voldemort's resurrection spell, it required three participants. Each of them must contribute to the spell. Eliminate any one..."

Harry did not have to go on. Hermione asked, "Whom did the ceremony require to bring Sirius back?" Even as she spoke, she was certain that she knew one of the names Harry would speak.

"As I said, it was a lot like Voldemort's spell. That one required bone of the father, unknowingly given; flesh of the servant, willingly given; and blood of a foe -- " Harry's eyes fell piercingly upon his right forearm, " -- forcibly taken."

Harry paused, and Hermione steeled herself for what she knew must come.

"The three needed to bring back Sirius," Harry said, "are a son, a brother -- and an enemy. Dumbledore said that the first two need not be literal blood relatives; a spiritual bond is sufficient to empower the spell. But in the case of the third, there can be no compromise. No mere rival or antagonist will suffice. Only a true and genuine foe can fill that role -- the most critical of all.

"But unlike Voldemort's spell, where my blood was taken against my will, all three parties must participate by consent. By its very nature, the spell is founded more on the spiritual than the physical. Any coercion at all invalidates the entire ceremony. Commitment of will is the key. Without that, it's all just so much rubbish." Harry's jaw muscles were quivering now, as if he were holding himself under control by sheer force of will.

"Harry," Hermione said in a reasoning voice that was almost patronizing, "you couldn't seriously expect Snape to -- "

"YES, I COULD!" Harry roared. "HE OWED IT TO ME, FOR ALL THE BLOODY MISERY HE HEAPED ON ME IN SEVEN YEARS AT HOGWARTS! AND MORE THAN THAT, IT WAS BECAUSE OF HIM THAT SIRIUS WAS LOST IN THE FIRST PLACE!"

"You know that's not true," Hermione said, a trace of fear in her voice. "He had nothing to do with -- "

"He tormented Sirius all the while he was hiding out at Grimmauld Place," Harry said, no longer shouting, but his anger not diminished for that. "The same way he tormented me at Hogwarts. He goaded...and pushed...until..." Harry's throat constricted, and he took a slow breath before continuing. "If it wasn't for him, Sirius never would have been lost. And when we presented him with the opportunity to make it right, he refused! He refused!"

Harry stalked over to the map and jabbed his finger at a spot that was roughly equidistant from the marks designating the vampire attacks, the hub of an invisible wheel with only a bare handful of spokes.

"He's there," Harry said, the certainty in his voice hard as granite. "Even before I saw the map, I was sure of it. It's the one place he could hide safely right under everyone's noses. It's protected by more anti-detection spells than Hogwarts. It's Unplottable, so no one who doesn't already know it's there could ever find it on a map. No one in MLE knows anything about the Order of the Phoenix, except maybe as a name spoken in relation to the war against Voldemort. No one knows where the headquarters was except those of us who were there." Harry stabbed the map again, and Hermione did not need to follow his his arm visually to know that his finger was touching the spot representing Number 12 Grimmauld Place.

"If the different departments weren't so bloody secretive," Hermione said with a sort of sick disgust, "this could all have been sorted out so easily. Kingsley and Tonks and Remus all know about Grimmauld place, and once you told them that Snape -- "

"But I'm not going to tell them," Harry said, his voice tempered steel. "And neither are you."

"Harry," Hermione said imploringly, "they've got to know! This is too important to be limited to a personal vendetta! Think how many people will die --"

"No one else is going to die," Harry said firmly. "After tonight, the problem will be taken care of."

"Harry, please!" Hermione sobbed, her eyes welling with tears. "You can't!"

"I can," Harry said resolutely. "And I will."

Hermione's wide, unblinking eyes fixed Harry with a look of horror.

"If you do this...this...whatever it is you intend," Hermione said, "you'll be no better than Snape. In fact, you'll be worse."

"How can you say that?" Harry shot in a voice sharper than a razor. "You know what he is as well as anyone. He was an inhuman monster before he became a vampire! And now -- "

"Now is not then, Harry," Hermione said. "The one has no bearing on the other. You're an Auror. Your sworn duty is to rid the world of Dark creatures; to stop them from harming others by whatever means necessary. And if circumstances dictate that you kill, you kill. But to use that authority as an excuse for vengeance against past wrongs -- even legitimate ones -- will leave your hands as bloody as Snape's. Moreso, in fact."

"How can you possibly compare me to -- to a vampire?" Harry shrieked, his voice breaking.

"A vampire is a force of evil," Hermione said. "But it is not truly evil in and of itself. Snape does not kill for evil's sake. He does so to survive. He has no choice. A wild animal that attacks someone is not evil, any more than a bolt of lightning that sets a house alight is evil.

"A vampire is a soulless creature. His actions, however reprehensible, are not accountable by human standards. But we mortals have a soul. We choose our actions, for good or for evil. If you do this thing, you'll not only sink to Snape's level, but as far below him as can be. Is that what you want, Harry? Is it?"

"The moment Snape dies," Harry said petulantly, "Geoffrey Suggins will be restored as he was before. You want that, don't you?" Harry's voice was sharper than he'd intended, but all the same it was an accusation intended to wound.

"This has nothing to do with Geoffrey," Hermione said flatly, ignoring Harry's grimace at hearing her voice the stricken wizard's name, "and you know it. This is all about you. You don't want to stop Snape -- you want to punish him -- you want to hurt him as payment for all the pain he's caused you. You don't need me to tell you that what you intend is wrong. Please, Harry. Stop this now. It's not too late. You can still make it right. You can go to Kingsley...tell him that Snape's mesmer temporarily drove the knowledge from your mind...you did lose your amulet, so I'm sure he'll believe you. And I'll back you up...I'll...I'll say that you talked in your sleep..."

As Hermione's voice trailed off, Harry fixed her with a stare that could have pierced steel with the ease of a sword cleaving a silk tapestry. "You don't understand," he breathed.

"Perhaps not," Hermione conceded. "But I do understand that if you do this thing, it will cost you more than you can imagine. You'll become as soulless as Snape. Only, unlike him, your soul won't have been stolen from you by some nameless curse. You'll be throwing it in the gutter as if it were so much rubbish. Is it really worth such a price, Harry? Do you want revenge so badly that you'll buy it with your humanity?"

Harry's eyes seemed to look straight through Hermione's. She prayed that he was looking inside himself, seeing the terrible repercussions of his intended actions until he beheld their horror as clearly as did she. When the light of awareness returned again, he fixed Hermione's tear-filled eyes with his stony emeralds and spoke in a calm voice.

"Everything that was said in this room must remain in this room," he said. "No one can know -- not Kingsley, nor Amelia -- no one. Do you understand? I want your promise, Hermione. Nothing more."

"Harry," Hermione whimpered, "I can't! I can't make that promise!"

"Promise me," Harry repeated. Slowly he drew his wand and, to Hermione's disbelieving horror, pointed it straight at her heart. "Promise me."

"Harry," Hermione sobbed.

"Promise me."

Wiping her eyes, Hermione assumed a forced calm she did not wholly feel. Very slowly, she said, "If you force me to make that promise, Harry, things can never be the same between us. Not ever again. It will be as if the last ten years we shared never happened. And all the tomorrows that could have been ours...is revenge against Snape worth that much to you, Harry?"

Harry stared at Hermione for a span that seemed an eternity. In a low, pained voice, he said, "Promise me, Hermione."

Holding back fresh tears, Hermione said, "I promise. I won't tell anyone. Everything that was said in this room, stays in this room. I promise," she repeated for effect.

Harry lowered his wand, and Hermione expelled a ragged sigh that hovered on the edge of a mournful sob. As she watched, Harry waved his wand over the Situation Map. A moment later, the surface was as blank as it had been when first they entered the room. Hermione waited to see if Harry had anything more to say to her, some further explanation for his actions. When none was forthcoming, Hermione walked quietly to the door and placed her ear to its wooden surface. Hearing no sound from without (the Soundproofing Charm being a one-way avenue), she pushed the door open. She stood in the doorway for a moment, her heart aching for some word of contrition, of sanity, from Harry. She sighed again, the sound one of heartbreaking finality.

"Goodbye, Harry."

When the door closed behind Hermione, Harry stood alone in the flickering torchlight. His eyes stared unblinkingly, seeing vistas far removed from the four stone walls surrounding him.

"That's one more debt, Snape," Harry muttered bitterly. "One more to add to the list. Tomorrow night you'll pay for them all. By Merlin's beard, I swear. You will pay. In full."