Irredeemable

Harry fumed, watching as the blue barrier solidified and then slowly faded, leaving only a light sparkle if one looked closely. He had known there had to be something more to the defense of Hogwarts, had argued with both Voldemort and Draco over it. And here was his proof; it infuriated him.

"Bastard!" he screamed, rushing forward. But Dumbledore had already retreated inside, and most of the other Order Members were doing likewise.

Now the castle itself was closed to them, and they had the wards to deal with. They didn't even know what the blasted things did!

"Malfoy! Lestrange! Nott! Avery! McMillan! Regan!" Voldemort called out, gathering six of his most magically powerful Death Eaters. "I want you to take these wards down, now! They started from that tower; destroy it!"

The six clustered together in a small group, looking up towards the tower and conferring with themselves. The rest of the Death Eaters picked up the stragglers who were too slow to reach safety inside of Hogwarts. Harry ignored them all, sprinting up to the entrance of the castle. He sneered at the dead bodies below him, fools who thought they could withstand the might of the Dark Lord. But even for the fools they were, they had managed to stop the Death Eaters temporarily. He paced and growled atop the long flight of stone steps, banging on the gigantic door in frustration.

"Harry!" Harry turned just in time to see a crimson-clad figure rushing towards him, silver serpent shining on his cheek before he was face to face with Draco.

"That bastard tricked us! I knew we shouldn't've trusted that parchment!"

"It wouldn't make any difference," Draco attempted to convince Harry, though he too looked resentful. "We'd still have to break through them. Now we just get a bit of a break."

"While they have the ability to regroup as well! This isn't going as planned! They should all be dead by now!"

"They can't escape by Floo; we have that blocked off. They're trapped inside the castle. Besides, if everything else fails, we can always use some of the passageways between Hogsmeade and the castle."

They've probably blocked those up by now," Harry predicted sourly. "Dumbledore will pay for this! I hate him! I effing hate him!"

Harry pounded his fist against the door, hoping that wherever Dumbledore was he heard and was frightened.

Dumbledore repressed a shiver as the doors of the castle were repeatedly beaten. A large, flickering screen, rather like a Muggle cinema projector, was situated at the far end of the Great Hall, displaying the entrance. Harry Potter paced back and forth, silver snake writhing on his cheek and eyes glaring at everything in sight.

"Why can't we just kill him?" Ron Weasley demanded, blood trickling down from his red hair. "He's out in the open; we could just off him right here!"

Opening the doors would weaken the auxiliary wards we have in place, Mr. Weasley. We can not risk the lives of so many for the sake of your vengeance."

"Do you really want to kill Harry?" Remus Lupin asked, holding his wand limply and watching Harry with sad eyes.

"Of course! Don't you?" Lupin didn't respond, closing his eyes and bowing his head. He was a forlorn figure; few would venture near him. No one wanted to be close to a dangerous werewolf who would probably betray them to his kindred at any moment. He looked as if he needed a good stiff drink more than anything else. "You don't do you?" Ron queried suddenly, though he sounded as if he were sure of the answer. "You're on his side, aren't you, Lupin? Siding with your werewolf friends." Ron was so desperate to fight someone that he even goaded the mild-tempered Lupin. One by one he was driving everyone away but he didn't seem to care. As long as Harry died, it seemed, Ron would be content.

"I have lost my position as pack leader in order to fight for the Order, Ron. I could have betrayed you long ago, but I didn't." Dumbledore shook his head, feeling deeply for his former student. Harry had been the only thing left to Remus; James, Lily, and Sirius were dead and Pettigrew turned traitor. Remus had never forgiven himself for not being there when Harry had left or for not convincing him to return last month.

Ron, however, couldn't see past his own ego-centric world. "But you don't want Harry to die. That's as good as a betrayal."

Dumbledore interrupted, clearing his throat. "Now is not the time for divisions to be made between us. Now is a time for strength."

Collin Creevey rushed into the Great Hall, face red and out of breath. "They say the Death Eaters are starting to unravel the wards," he panted, gulping in air. "The weaker ones are already falling, and the stronger ones don't have long."

"How much time do we have?"

"Half an hour, give or take. Not long."

Dumbledore nodded his head sadly. "Thank you, Mr. Creevey. Are the children secure in the dungeons?" Flitwick nodded, his long cap bobbing up and down with his head. "The wounded are seen to?" Molly Weasley nodded, pushing a sweaty strand of red hair out of her eyes.

"There... there aren't many, but Madame Pompfrey has the few that are." Her eyes suddenly turned solemn. "If they aren't in the infirmary or her, they're probably... dead."

Dumbledore bowed his head compassionately, and then raised it, eyes burning with cobalt determination. "We must fight on in their honour," he declared firmly, "for their deaths will not be in vain."

Hermione, seated in the rear of the Great Hall, had to stop herself from snickering. "Oh, they won't die in vain," she commented caustically, "they'll die to further your purpose. Because even if we do win, you'll just turn into a benevolent dictator instead of a malevolent one. And there's not that big of a difference."

Madame Pompfrey bustled from one bed to the other, apron pockets full of potions and bandages. A few of the older students whose talents lay in healing and not combat trailed behind her, offering their scant comforts.

This was all the blasted Potter boy's fault. Why, he'd been in the infirmary so often in his years at Hogwarts that she would have thought he knew what it was like to be in these people's position. But, no, he didn't.

She was a nurse, and sworn to never take a life, but sometimes she wondered what would have happened if she had refused to take care of Potter just once.

Broken arms, unexplained headaches, the after-affects of the Cruciatus: Potter had seen it all. And now he was the one shouting the curses instead of dodging them. It was such a gargantuan change from the sweet, if sad, boy he used to be.

Secretly, in her deepest fantasies, she hoped that through some bizarre turn of events Potter would end up needing her care. She could just imagine how he'd plead and beg.

It might be a bit sadistic, but she was certainly no worse than potter. And that would never happen anyway; in this war it was kill or be killed, sad as she was to admit it.

Still, if she ever were to be asked to take care of Potter...

She turned to the next patient, a young boy with burns covering his body with a grim smile on her face, humming forcefully as she continued her work.

Deidra stood firmly in the tower, legs planted a few feet apart and arms held in front of her, palms stretching as if they might break. A purple light shone from her hands, but she couldn't see it. She was too intent on her work, eyes closed and thick lips chanting the ancient words.

"Ni canta di danu!" she whispered, speaking in one of the old tongues that few knew. "Li palma, li kana!"

"Deidra! Is it working?" The purple light glimmered and shook, darkening and lightening, streaks of black and silver roiling throughout the evanescent orb. The question jolter her out of her deep concentration. Suddenly she was aware of the grimy, sweaty deep purple robes she wore. She realised that her bare feet were freezing on the flagstone floor and that her brown, sun streaked hair was blocking her vision.

She pushed the lo9ng curly fringe out of her amethyst eyes, surprised at how much energy the small movement took. "Nin ji aina peyna!" Her bitten finger nails dug into her palm in frustration. "Nin ji aina, nin ji."

Thom blinked at her, confusion showing in his cerulean eyes. "What?"

"Nin ji aina peyna!" she snapped, then blinked as she realised the problem. "The victory will not be ours," she informed him sadly. "By myself, I can not stop the Eaters of Death. My magic is not up to the task. Where are the others, the ones who were here?"

Thom shook his head. "They're drained. None of them can last any longer. Most have collapsed from exhaustion, and there are no replacements. You are on your own."

"Tristu!" Deidra snapped, shaking her head. Her curls fell out of the loose ponytail with the movement, twirling about her head. "Din kana ti tristu bi din nimu!" Thom didn't even appear to be insulted by the grievous insult, which only made Deidra even more incensed.

"When your master contacted me," she finally managed slowly, her words heavily accented, "I was told that help there would be." She knew three dozen languages fluently and could pull off all sorts of accents, but when she was highly irate she always slipped back into the intonations and the structures of the tongue of her childhood. At the moment, she was surprised that she could continue to speak their pitiful English tongue. "Now there are none left of the help. The Eaters of Death will soon enter. Me, I can do not a thing."

"But we're counting on you!" Thom pleaded, desperation beginning to show in the lines between his eyebrows. "We need you!"

"You are too young to know anything, tristu bi din nimu. Your lives mean naught to me; I will be as I have been for always. I came because your master knew the right words in the right tongue. But he had merely learned them from an ancient tome and knew naught of my people. He can no speak the tongue of ours. He is too young."

"Dumbledore's not young!" Thom argued, face bright red. This woman, who only looked like she was twenty-five, was accusing him of ignorance and youthful naïveté. He had been fighting for the Order of the Phoenix for longer than she was alive, and she had no right to call him young, or whatever that other crap that passed for a language meant. "You think that just because you can mumble some shite and make impressive gestures that you are our only hope! Stop giving up! Do your damn job!"

"If you think the wards are so easily managed," Deidra growled, the threat of a challenge heavy in her voice, "then you may take them over."

She closed her eyes again and focused, finding the ties that bound her to the castle and its wards. Slowly, carefully, so as not to cause a backlash when the universe realised that what she was doing went against all natural laws, she unwound them from around herself and lashed them onto the mere boy.

Thom's gray eyebrows rose and he fell to his knees, screaming in pain. Deidra ignored him, sweeping past. She would no longer deal with these children who played with their magic, not caring that it was their fire that scorched the world around them. Either they would learn to control themselves or they would die.

Odds were heavily banked towards the latter.

The sky flashed, first a brilliant purple, then a blinding white. In Hogsmeade, the few remaining people were thrown from their sleep, the light invading their homes even through thick curtains drawn against the winter chill.

Henry immediately reached for his wand, cursing all the gods he had ever heard of. He'd thought- stupidly perhaps- that he and his family would be safe in Hogsmeade. It was, after all, the largest Wizarding community in all of Britain, and guaranteed an extra measure of protection due to is proximity to Hogwarts.

"Henry?" his wife called from the bed, clutching the sheets to her chest in terror, "what is it?"

"I don't know," he answered, "but I'll bet a thousand galleons it's the Death Eaters."

"The children!" Sarah gasped, racing over to the wardrobe. She quickly pulled on a gray robe, yanking boots onto her feet at the same time. "We've got to get the children out of here!"

"But where can we go? Where can we be safe?"

"Anywhere! Anywhere but here!" Sarah cried, hysterical.

"Mummy?" a tiny, frightened voice called out. Their daughter appeared out of the shadows, eyes wide and face white with terror. "Mummy, daddy, I had a bad dream-"

"It's okay, honey," Henry answered, picking the toddler up and holding her tightly. "We're going to have to leave for a while, okay? Now let's go get your favourite robe on and we'll get Ewan and then we're going to go on a vacation, okay?" Terra nodded, still scared but willing to relax in her father's arms.

"Sarah," Henry said in an undertone to his wife, "get Ewan and I'll meet you at the fireplace."

Still holding Terra, Henry set off towards her small room, decorated with unicorns and cute, stylized dragons. He turned on the light and set his daughter down, hurrying over to the wardrobe and pulling a robe from its depths.

"That's not my favourite, Daddy!" Terra complained when he brought it out. "I like the pink one better!"

"Not now!" Henry snapped. Terra shivered at the rough tone in his voice, picking up her pink and purple dragon plushie and holding it to her chest. Henry rubbed his temples. "I'm sorry, Terra, but we've got to go now." He held out the pink robe, helping Terra into it.

Terra, still holding her dragon, trotted after her father obediently, fear forgotten. "Where are we going, daddy?" she asked.

"I don't know, sweetheart," he answered, then thought better of it. "Well, I do, but it's a surprise. Let's just be quiet and meet up with mummy and Ewan, okay?" Terra nodded sweetly and reached up to hold on to her father's hand.

Henry, though, was too terrified and too outraged to even notice the simple act of his daughter's faith.

Lucius stumbled backwards at the sudden burst of light, reeling from the sheer shock of the explosion. It was then that he realised there was no sound; in fact, he had no sensory information at all except for the blinding light.

As soon as it had appeared, the light was gone, replaced with the rising sun. The sky was red, a fitting symbol for this day of bloodshed. And not just the blood of those Mudbloods and Muggle-lovers either. It would be the blood of his son and that Potter boy that soaked into the ancient cracks of Hogwarts this day.

His lips curled in a vicious smile, seeing his unfaithful son and his little boyfriend cooling on the stones of the castle in his mind's eye.

His glorious vision was interrupted by the heavy shout of Voldemort, but he didn't mind. The chaos of the battle would start again, and he could find a way to kill the two brats before anyone was the wiser.

The large wooden doors proved to be of little challenge. Potter merely blasted a hole in them large enough for six men to walk abreast through the moment the wards fell. Together, the two boys in crimson robes rushed into the school, Death Eaters, giants, werewolves, and others flooding in behind them.

Lucius hurried along with the rest, smiling behind his mask and gripping his wand tightly.

"They'll be in the Great Hall!" Harry yelled at the rush of creatures following him, still running forward. "Kill them all!" He brandished his wand before him like a sword, screaming out a spell that sent a ball of wind swirling forth to bash into the large doors.

The wood splintered, leaving a great, gaping hole. A few people inside screamed and Harry grinned maniacally, ecstatic that they were finally about to end this.

He ducked away from the sudden balls of light streaking towards him and ran into the Hall, still crouched down. His wand was busy, flinging Unforgivables flippantly, swaths of people falling to the floor in agony or unconsciousness.

This was true power. It was intoxicating, causing his eyes to glow with a hellish light and his skin to shine. The sheer strength flowing through his fingertips amazed him, that awful, haunting power. Oh, how he loved it, adored it, longed for it.

He heard a screaming laugh, distantly recognizing the voice as his own. Witches and wizards flung themselves out of his path, the whites of their eyes prevalent and panicked.

Harry raised his head from the body of a blonde Auror, smirking up at the elevated platform where Dumbledore waited.

"I win, Dumbledore!" he cackled, mouth wide and eyes gleaming. "I win!"

Dumbledore clutched his wand tightly. He had been so proud to finally have a wand of his own after watching his brothers' practice with jealous eyes. He could still remember the feel as the first bit of real magic he had ever done had flown through his fingertips into the ten and a quarter inches of oak filled with Unicorn hair. He understood why Ollivander worked as he did; it was a miraculous thing, to witness such pure, unbridled magic spring forth.

But looking at Harry Potter, his one time protégé, his sentiments dimmed considerably.

So much power being put to such an evil purpose was sickening. And when the boy looked up at him with those Avada Kedavra green eyes, face flushed from battle and lit by the glow of the Killing curse, it was all he could do to remain standing.

"Harry," he moaned, bowing his head. He straightened again, meeting the young man's gaze with as much subdued strength as he could muster. "We will not allow you to win," he shouted over the din of battle.

Harry just smirked.

"You bloody bastard!" Ron cried, turning away from where he had been dueling with a Death Eater. He rushed towards Harry, teeth barred in an angry snarl. "Traitor! Murderer! Liar! Mudblood!"

Harry appeared genuinely shocked for a moment, but recovered quickly. "I'm a Mudblood, am I?" he queried caustically, dispatching a Hannah Abbot with a flick of his wand as he walked towards Ron calmly. "That's rather amusing, coming from a Weasley. I didn't think you had enough Blood Pride to keep yourselves fed. And judging from what I've seen of your house, I was right."

"You betrayed my friendship!" Ron accused, ducking quickly from an oncoming blast of magic. He recovered quickly, springing to his feet. "You've torn apart my family! Everything is your fault! And I'll see you die because of it!"

Harry's neck flushed, and his eyes hardened. "I am no traitor," he managed through clamped teeth. "I would never betray anyone who actually cared for me."

Ron sneered again, opening his mouth to retort.

"Stop it Ron!" Hermione commanded, wriggling between the masses of people. "Leave him alone!"

Ron whirled around, bringing his wand to bear at Hermione's throat. "So you're on his side now, too? I should have known! He's tricked you all!"

"Listen to Granger, Weasley," Harry advised. "She at least seems to understand that she can't defeat me."

"If you're going to kill each other," Hermione snapped, darting to one side to narrowly avoid a Stunning Spell aimed at Harry, "hurry up and do it!"

"She's right you know," Harry said. "I always knew you were smart, Hermione. We're in the middle of a battle, and we can't stand here and talk all day. So I think I'll just have to kill you."

Harry raised his wand, throwing Ron a toothy grin that smacked of iron ferocity. "Avada Ked-"

"Harry!"

Harry turned around, seeing Draco rush towards him. The right sleeve of his crimson robe was torn off and blood poured from a deep gash.

"Voldemort says to finish this!"

Harry nodded, turning around to face Ron again.

The room spun. The blurry forms of people whirled around him. Bright colours began to flash before him, vibrant violets and raging greens. His head felt as if it were about to fly off his shoulders, up towards the rafters barely visible behind the façade of a rising sun projected onto their surface. Blood pounded in his ears, loud and insistent, like the banging of African drums relaying messages that he was hopelessly unable to comprehend.

His head rolled back against his shoulder as his body swayed dizzily. He stopped, poised on one foot, before falling to the ground in a heap.

Dumbledore raised an eyebrow, lowering his wand in shock.

That was certainly unexpected.

Hermione's eyes widened and her lips parted, body frozen. Harry was... dead?

The battles around them stilled, their motions arrested by Malfoy's enraged yell. "Who did this?" he demanded, jumping around Harry's prone form, barely touching the ground before springing off in another direction.

"Why so upset, Draco?" a cultured voice drawled. Lucius Malfoy stepped forward, pulling the mask off of his face and shaking his long blonde hair free of his cowl. "The little whore has been marked for death ever since he was born." He kicked at Harry's body, which rolled over with no resistance. "Surely you must have known this day would come."

Draco growled, clenching his wand tightly in one hand while the other curled into a fist, blood rising from small cuts where his nails dug into his skin. "You killed him then?" he asked, his voice a threatening, muted roar. "You killed your master's second in command?"

"Unfortunately not," Lucius responded calmly, "though I do applaud whoever did. The bastard's had far too much influence of late, as have you. Surely you did not expect the Death Eaters to sit quietly by while you usurped their previous positions of favour."

Draco's jaw tightened and the words he ground out were forced. "I would have expected my own father to rise above such pettiness, or at the very least to use me to achieve his own ends. I'm sorry to have disappointed you, father, but I will not do so any longer."

Lucius smirked. "I should hope not."

"Avada Kedavra."

Draco uttered the words emotionlessly, eyes steely and mouth set in a thin line. Lucius appeared surprised, his eyes glazing over in shock as he fell over limply.

Draco closed his eyes and took a deep breath, shoulders trembling visibly. He dropped to his knees next to Harry, bringing the dark head up towards him. With terrified concentration he felt for a pulse. "You've survived far worse than this Harry," he reminded the other gently, "you can't be dead now."

Hermione crouched down opposite Draco, studying Harry intently. She picked up a limp hand from where it was sprawled across the floor, clutching it tightly as tears flowed freely down her face. Harry's skin was still warm, almost feverishly so. Surely his body would have started cooling already...

His eyelids fluttered, the motion barely discernable, but there none the less.

"He's not dead!" she cried, dropping the warm hand and stumbling eagerly to her feet. "He's not dead!"

"Then what's wrong with him?" Draco asked in a low voice bereft of his usual biting tone. "He's not stunned either."

"Who cares?" Ron demanded joyfully. "He's not dead; now I can be the one to kill him!"

"If you lay a hand on him," Draco threatened, not rising to face Ron or even glancing upwards, "I will turn you over to the Dark Lord myself. He has way of stripping someone of their magic, so completely that even a Lumos is beyond their reach. Normally it is a fate reserved for upstart Mudbloods, but I'm sure he'll make an exception for you."

Draco snaked his arms around Harry gently, lifting the slight body from the floor of the Great Hall. He turned, picking his way through the carnage towards the exit.

Dumbledore ignored the scene unfolding before him, instead turning to glance behind him. Lockhart trembled at the intensity of his blue stare, his wand falling to the ground with a light clatter.

"I... I was..." he tried to explain, running a hand through his carefully arranged hair, messing the perfect arrangement.

"You just Obliviated Harry Potter," Dumbledore interjected helpfully. Lockhart nodded fearfully, eyes watching for any hint of the headmaster's intentions. "How much will he remember?"

Lockhart gulped loudly, unsure if his answer would please Dumbledore or not. "He shouldn't remember anything,"

Dumbledore studied him intently for a moment before his blue eyes lit up with their long-absent twinkle. "My friend," he announced joyfully, smiling broadly, "you have just saved us all."

Much to his later chagrin, such recognition from Albus Dumbledore, complete with his small host of titles and all honours possible, totally petrified him.

Gilderoy Lockhart collapsed in a heap of mauve, lace-trimmed robes.

"My Lord!" a light tenor voice called breathlessly. A short Death Eater rushed up to the Dark Lord, hurriedly bowing and showing the proper respect. "My Lord the troops have entered the castle and-"

"Do you think I can not see that?" Voldemort asked, folding his arms across his chest. His servants always seemed to think that they needed to point out the obvious; still, even this idiot could not spoil his good mood. After all, it was not everyday he could conquer the last stronghold of the Wizarding world.

"Of... of course, My Lord," the man stuttered, bowing again. "The battle was progressing well-"

"Was?" His voice was calm and low, with a tinge of restrained annoyance. He raised one thin eyebrow, cocking his head to one side. "Has something changed?"

"My Lord, Harry Potter has..." The man trailed off, uncertain as to how he should phrase his report.

"Has he defected? Killed Dumbledore? Spit it out, man!" Voldemort took a long stride forward, lifting the slight man up by his collar and forcing their faces to meet. The Death Eater cowered away as much as he could, trembling uncontrollably with terror. His mouth worked for several moments behind his mask before he could gather the courage to answer.

"My Lord, Harry Potter has... collapsed," he squeaked, gasping for air. "He's not dead, but he's not been Stupefied either. No one knows what's wrong with him."

Voldemort's eyes flamed at the news, his grip tightening. "And where is Potter now?"

"Malfoy has him, My Lord."

"Which Malfoy, idiot?" Voldemort paused for a breath before narrowing his eyes. "And the longer you take to tell me, the more painful your death will be."

"The younger one sir, the older one's dead, killed by his own son, for treason they said, wanted to kill Harry Potter, said that he'd been too powerful and that he was a little whore and there's supposed to be some dissent among some of the older Death Eaters who don't like all these new recruits gaining power and the fighting's all stopped." He spoke so quickly, knowing that the Dark Lord did not make threats idly, that his words slurred together into one big mess that took Voldemort several minutes to untangle.

With a grimace he threw the man to one side, motioning for one of his other Death Eaters to remove the weakling from his presence.

With Potter out of commission and these damnable rumors of a rebellion roiling within his ranks, the battle was already lost. After all their careful planning, even with the mishap with the wards, he had thought that their victory was assured. Now, however, he was forced to admit, if not defeat, then at least a temporary withdraw.

Those bastards who dared to question his orders or those of his second in commands would suffer, not just for their incompetence and their doubts, but also for losing him this battle.

"Retreat!" he called, the order being screamed down the battlefield and into Hogwarts. After he dealt with this little insurrection and assured himself of Harry's health, they would be back. And they'd be even stronger next time.

Dumbledore, though he had his many faults, was not a man to let an opportunity slip by. And the possession of one Harry Potter and all his many magical talents and powers, but without the cumbersome burden of his memory was an opportunity of pure gold.

With a small pop he disappeared from the raised platform at the far end of the Great Hall, reappearing directly in front of Draco Malfoy and the small body cradled in his arms.

"You forget, Mr. Malfoy," Dumbledore chastised him gently, holding his wand between the boy's wide silver eyes, "that with the dismantling of the wards it is now possible to Apparate in Hogwarts. Now, if I may remove you of your burden."

Draco's lips drew back in a wolfish snarl and he tightened his grip on Harry. "You'll never touch him again, Dumbledore," he growled, spitting on the ground. "Now get the hell out of my way."

Draco roughly shouldered past the old man, hurrying his steps. Dumbledore, however, was not to be deterred. He took another step forward, cutting off Draco's path once more.

"If you would just hand Mr. Potter over to me, Mr. Malfoy, I will see that he receives the best medical treatment available." Draco's muscles strained against the prolonged agony of carrying Harry, and he hefted the body over his shoulder, struggling to remain standing. "After all, Mr. Malfoy," Dumbledore continued, smiling as if to mollify Draco, "you do not know what is wrong with him. Even a simple mobilicorpus could cause more damage than it would good."

"I'm sure he'll be fine," Draco spat, eyes squinting to see the motivation behind the Headmaster's glinting eyes.

"I, on the other hand, know precisely what is wrong with him." Dumbledore flicked his wand, sending Harry hovering into the air and onto a conjured stretcher. Draco opened his mouth to argue, face reddening with rage.

"Retreat! All Death Eaters, retreat!"

Immediately the robed figures began to Apparate, disappearing in swarms. Draco moved as if to follow, but looked up.

He couldn't abandon Harry. After all, Harry was his love, his friend, and his partner. And Harry had risked himself, stupidly perhaps, in order to save Draco in Hogsmeade. Draco might have been a Slytherin, with all the traits of self-preservation that his status prevailed, but Harry was a Gryffindor. He'd be damned if some of the other's foolish loyalty hadn't rubbed of on him.

Besides, he couldn't leave Harry alone with Dumbledore. He had enough to deal with (such as the Dark Lord's reaction to his failure and whatever spell had hit him) and he shouldn't have to deal with the smiling, manipulative bastard on top of it.

"Give him back!" Draco ordered, mind racing furiously to come up with a decent spell.

But Dumbledore only smiled sadly, shaking his head. Strong arms gripped him from behind, dragging him out of the Great Hall and away from Harry.

"Place him in one of the unused dungeon rooms. Feed him, clothe him, keep him comfortable, but don't let him escape. He may be useful later," Dumbledore commanded calmly, before turning around. "And someone begin constructing temporary wards. Put up anti-Apparition barriers first; it shouldn't be too hard. The magic for that resides in the very stones of the castle, and it just needs to be pulled forth. As for the others, well," Dumbledore stopped, rubbing his temples and sighing sadly. "Well, we'll see to them when the time comes."

"Let me go!" Draco struggled against his captor, flailing back and forth.

"I'm not releasing you, you idiot boy," Snape responded in his usual acidic voice. "You've caused enough trouble as it is. If Dumbledore hadn't specifically requested that we keep you alive, I'd be tossing you into the Forbidden Forest to be devoured."

"I have to get to Harry! He can't be without me-"

Snape snorted. "He managed well enough for fifteen years. And besides, you expect me to be moved by the little brat's plight? I couldn't care less if he pines for you or not."

"You don't know him! None of you know him! You don't know what he's like when he transforms or how to deal with him!" Draco spat in Snape's face, glaring fiercely at the potions professor.

Snape threw Draco to the floor in disgust, wiping away the flecks of spittle and pulling out his wand. "Stupefy!"

"Poppy!"

Pompfrey straightened from the bed of a middle-aged man, setting down a still-smoking goblet. "Just put him on the floor," she said distractedly, "I'll get to him when there's time."

"Poppy, this patient is a priority! He's been knocked unconscious by an Obliviate, and we don't know how bad the damage."

"Headmaster, with all due respect, I have much more critical patients to deal with right now," Pompfrey snapped, scurrying over to a chubby girl leaning against the wall with one arm severed below the elbow. "He won't even wake up for another day or two, and I'll deal with him then."

She clucked her tongue, too concentrated on the oozing wound to try and comfort the poor, sobbing girl. "Besides," she continued, smoothing ointment gently over the torn flesh and wrapping light linen bandages around the useless stump methodically, "it's not as if Death Eaters cast Obliviate often. Whoever he is, he's probably better off without his memory; so he's probably a damn Death Eater anyway."

"Be that as it may," Dumbledore stated after a brief silence, blinking at the normally even-tempered nurse's language, "we can't afford to lose him. He's much too valuable."

Pompfrey rose, knotting the bandages with a sharp tug that caused the girl to yelp in pain, clutching her arm to her chest. She had a sharp rejoinder on her tongue, just waiting to give the headmaster a piece of her mind-

Then she saw who the patient was.

"No."

"Excuse me?"

"No. I'm not treating him. He put half these poor lambs in here!" She turned her back on the Headmaster again, treating the next patient with more force than was strictly necessary.

"Poppy, I already explained to you that he's lost his memory," Dumbledore sighed wearily, rubbing at his temples. "He doesn't remember doing any of the things he did; he's just a poor boy in need of help."

"Get someone else to help him. I wasted enough of my talents on that scum while he was a student here, and I won't divert my attention from other, deserving patients."

"Poppy," Dumbledore said gravely, "if you refuse to treat Mr. Potter, then I will have no chance but to fire you."

"Go ahead!" the nurse cried, white skirts flapping around her furiously. "I dare you! I'm a fully qualified medical practitioner; I can get a position wherever I like!"

"Oh, so you're applying for St. Mungo's then?" Dumbledore wished he could withdraw the comment as soon as he said it, seeing the nurse stiffen. Dozens of her classmates and students had died in the attack, and the wound was still fresh.

"I will attend to him," Poppy conceded in clipped tones, "but I will not have anything but a strictly professional relationship with that monster."

"My dear Poppy," Dumbledore soothed in his most placating tone, "I do not expect miracles."

"That doesn't stop you from asking for them," she muttered, moving to examine Harry with a seething scowl on her face.

"Send Draco and Harry to me immediately," Voldemort ordered no one in particular, pacing back and forth angrily in front of his throne.

The Death Eaters, wary of their master after their dismal failure, rushed to obey, but all returned with the same message.

Draco and Harry were no where to be found.

"Who was the last to see them?" Voldemort roared, the torches around the room flaring as he lost control over his magic.

"Draco was carrying Harry and-"

"Dumbledore had grabbed Potter-"

"-conjured up a stretcher."

"-arguing with that bastard and struggling to reach the body-"

Each Death Eater seemed to remember events differently, or to order the events differently, or to claim no memory at all. Their answers were a loud wave, crashing into Voldemort's already pounding skull.

"Silence!" The Death Eaters immediately quieted, the eyes behind their masks dark with fear. "Are you telling me," Voldemort hissed maliciously, "that my two prize servants were left behind?"

"The order to retreat was called! It would have been death to stay behind!" a thin rail of a man offered in his defense, holding up his hands in a warding gesture.

"And what do you suppose will happen to the two left behind, hmm?" Voldemort fixed the man with an unblinking, serpentine gaze, but even the man's quivering could not soothe his boiling rage. "How do you think they will be treated? Like honoured guests?"

He paused, then began to inspect the assembled Death Eaters, gazing through the masks of each one as if searching for some hidden truth. "Or perhaps this was not really a mistake at all." Voldemort sounded convinced that this was the case. "Perhaps a few of you have grown jealous of the influence and power those two boys exerted, hmm? Wanted a bit of that for yourselves, did you?"

As one, the Death Eaters shook their heads, bowing and scraping their knees against the hard stone floor.

"Do you think that groveling in submission will make this any better?" the Dark Lord screeched, kicking at the fawning idiots. "Do you think that I am stupid? I will know who did this, and they will be punished. Think on that." He turned neatly in a swirl of dark robes, gesturing for Adolphous Lestrange to follow him.

He placed a long, thin finger on the Dark Mark, enjoying the expression of pain that flitted across his face. Wherever Draco and Harry were, they would come if they could. And if not, he was prepared to force his way past whatever mental shields Dumbledore had erected around Harry.

Harry was his.

His arm was tickling. Draco swatted at it sleepily, rolling over on the bed and moaning. The tickling was replaced by a slight burning sensation, accompanied by a mental tug.

"Leave me alone, Harry," he mumbled, kicking at the other boy weakly. His legs met only open air.

"Harry?" he queried sleepily, pushing himself up on his arms and blinking around the dim room. "Where are you?" Rubbing his eyes, he cursed, damning Dumbledore and Snape and the world in general.

He hurriedly rolled up his sleeve, staring at the jet black Dark Mark burning on his skin.

Alright, he told himself hurriedly, I can just Apparate over to Voldemort and come back here for Harry. Surely Voldemort will understand.

But what if he doesn't? He could want me to stay there and leave Harry here alone.

I might as well try. The worst he can do is kill me.

He sat fully upright and began concentrating. He pictured the Dark Lord's throne room, held the image in his mind. "Here goes nothing," he whispered, taking a deep breath and hoping he wasn't about to make a mistake.

Nothing happened.

"The Anti-Apparition wards have already been reestablished, Mr. Malfoy," Snape informed him, pushing open the door with one hand while carrying a tray of food in the other. He set the tray down on the bed next to Draco. "He can call you through your Dark Mark as much as he wants, but you won't be able to do anything about it."

The burning spread to his entire arm, and Draco clasped the offending limb to his chest in pain. Snape said nothing; he just turned and left, abandoning Draco to fight his tears alone.

"There's nothing else I can do," Pompfrey informed the headmaster shortly, doing her best to avoid looking at her patient. "He'll wake when he wakes, and until then you'll just have to wait."

Dumbledore nodded in understanding, eyes fixed on the light gray Dark Mark burned into the pale flesh of the boy's arm. So young, and yet his innocence spoiled irrevocably.

The boy was irredeemable.

At least, he had been.

Dumbledore remembered telling Harry that it was a person's choices that shaped their future, not their abilities. But at the time, he'd neglected a key part: the past.

He'd discovered that Harry could not forgive Dumbledore for his unwitting actions, refused to even listen to his pleas for understanding. The wounds of the past ran too deeply and were too numerous for Harry to forget.

But now, that was no longer a problem.

Harry didn't have his memories, couldn't recall how he had been betrayed by his friends. Moreover, the emotions that coincided with those memories would not be accessible. In short, Harry Potter was a blank canvas, even more so then he had been in his first year, and Dumbledore could paint whatever picture he wanted.

That is if he had the time.

The threat of Voldemort was a close one, especially in concerns to Harry. As far as he knew, their mental bond had only grown stronger in the past year, and Harry himself had no mental shields to speak of.

Dumbledore studied the pale, drawn face on the bed, wondering what exactly he could do to begin to remedy that situation. When he woke, Harry would have no way to construct his own mental shields, but there was only so much that Dumbledore could do. And worse, everything he could think of required the person to be awake.

He could protect Harry during the day, but the nights were an entirely different story.

On the bed, Harry twitched, his right hand moving to cover his Dark Mark. He moaned, a deep and pained sound. His forehead furrowed and his eyes clenched tightly shut, mouth open in a silent scream.

Cautiously, Dumbledore removed the hand, startled to see a fiercely glowing Dark Mark burning itself on the boy's skin. Harry wrenched himself out of Dumbledore's grasp, curling into a ball on his side.

The silver serpent on his cheek uncoiled, bifurcated tongue hissing warningly at Dumbledore. It swarmed over Harry's face, moving faster and faster with each erratic circuit.

With a cry, Harry flung himself forward, emerald eyes open and wide, but glazed. He stared ahead at nothing for several minutes, his breathing quick and inconsistent. Suddenly he fell backwards, lips moving as if speaking, but no sound came out.

On his cheek, the serpent smirked.