To Reap The Whirlwind

Spring, 1997

 

Harry Potter was soaring high above the Quidditch field, searching for the Golden Snitch. It was nothing but a friendly pick-up game, the Gryffindor first team against the Ravenclaw reserves, and as always, he felt wonderful when flying. The sky was blue, the sun was warm, and the Ravenclaw reserves, although not in the same league as his own team, skill-wise, were no pushovers. He easily dodged a Bludger that one of the Ravenclaws sent his way, his eyes scanning ceaselessly for the telltale golden glint of the Snitch.

Madam Hooch was watching the game from below. If it had been Gryffindor against Slytherin, she’d have been up there in the thick of the game herself, keeping both sides from going for each other’s throats. Ever since the return of the Dark Lord, nearly three years ago, relations between Slytherin and the other Houses of Hogwarts had deteriorated. The other Houses blamed the Slytherins for Voldemort’s return, and the Slytherins, in their turn, resented being blamed. Many of them, including, to Harry’s gratification, Draco Malfoy and his chums Crabbe and Goyle, had left Hogwarts, preferring to continue their educations elsewhere.

Just as Harry spotted a golden sparkle far below that almost had to be the Golden Snitch, Madam Hooch’s whistle blew, calling the game off. Greatly disappointed, Harry came in for a landing, scooping up the Golden Snitch on the way and ignoring the disappointed look the Ravenclaw Seeker, a redheaded girl named Cordelia Naismith, sent him. When he landed, Madam Hooch came over to him.

"Mr. Potter, Professor Dumbledore wants you in his office. I’m sorry, boys and girls, but Professor Dumbledore was quite insistent. You may start a new game---I’ve already sent for the Gryffindor reserve Seeker." Sure enough, out came Colin Creevey, wearing his Quidditch clothes and clutching his broom. Harry sighed, shouldering his broom and wondering what Professor Dumbledore wanted that was so very important, as he trudged wearily into Hogwarts Castle. It was such a beautiful day that he hated to spend any of it indoors.

When he got inside, Professor McGonagall met him, her face showing concern. Harry felt a frisson of worry for the first time. What could it be? he thought. Has Voldemort attacked the Dursleys? Don’t they know that if he did, I’d throw a party? Professor McGonagall escorted him to Professor Dumbledore’s office, refusing to answer his increasingly worried questions. Finally, she opened Professor Dumbledore’s office door and showed him in.

Professor Dumbledore was there, waiting for him, with a look of sorrow on his face. To Harry’s surprise, Mrs. Weasley was there as well, and she had obviously been crying. "Ah, there you are, Mr. Potter," said Professor Dumbledore. "I’m terribly sorry to take you away from your Quidditch match, but we felt that your presence was required here. Mr. Weasley would be here too, but he’s interviewing for a position he wants to take up after graduation. No, Mr. Potter, neither of you are in trouble." Harry sat down, feeling relieved. He hadn’t been up to any very serious rule-breaking recently, and since the death of Professor Snape at the hands of the Death Eaters, he had no particular enemies that he knew of on the faculty.

The door opened again, and in came Hermione Granger, her Head Girl badge glinting on her chest. "Professor Dumbledore? I was told you wanted to see me." She looked around uncertainly, obviously as at much of a loss about what was going on as Harry himself.

"Indeed I do, Miss Granger---although I wish I didn’t." Harry was even more puzzled. Hermione looked at Mrs. Weasley, visibly shelved her questions about why she was there, and took a seat.

"There’s no easy way to tell you things like this, Miss Granger, so forgive my bluntness. Last night, the Death Eaters attacked your home. The Aurors were distracted by a report of a Death Eater attack in a nearby neighborhood, directed at a retired witch who lives there. By the time they figured out that they had been bamboozled, and got back to their assigned posts, your home was in ruins and the Dark Mark was floating above it. Several of the neighbors have required Memory Spells."

"And---my mum and dad?" Hermione’s voice was faint, and she had gone very, very pale. Professor Dumbledore looked greyer than before, and suddenly Harry could sense how very old he was. "My mum and dad---they’re all right, aren’t they?" Although Harry could hear a tiny edge of hysteria in her voice, Hermione’s words were quite level. Her lips were chalky-white, and she gripped the arms of the chair she was sitting in hard enough that her knuckles were white.

"I’m sorry, Miss Granger, but no. The Death Eaters killed them both---and several of your neighbors who were there for dinner." To Harry, the room seemed to spin around for a second, as he digested this news. That the Death Eaters were cruel, and that they hated Muggles and Muggle-born witches and wizards---this was not unknown. But to strike so audaciously, with a distraction planned so that the guarding Aurors wouldn’t be there in time---Harry thought that there was only one person who could have planned such a strike. Most Death Eaters were too much the follower to plan such a thing. This was Voldemort’s own work---to strike at him through his friend.

To Harry’s surprise, Hermione did not dissolve in tears, or scream, or show any emotion at all. She went very white, and still, and seemed to have withdrawn inside herself, to a place where none of them could follow. Professor Dumbledore looked at her with compassion, obviously wishing that he could do something for her. Harry, himself, longed to touch her, to comfort her, but she had withdrawn completely.

Mrs. Weasley, less inhibited than the two men, was the first to try. She came over and swept Hermione into a hug, sobbing "Oh, my dear, I know how much it must hurt! You can stay with us at the Burrow for as long as you want to…" only to be startled away by Hermione’s response.

In a flat, distant voice, unlike her usual bubbly self, Hermione asked: "My parents’ bank accounts---where are they?" Mrs. Weasley recoiled, completely taken aback by this, and looked to Professor Dumbledore. Dumbledore’s eyebrows went up as he considered how to answer.

"Both your parents’ bank accounts were ‘pay-on-death’ to you, Miss Granger. But, after the Death Eaters got through, there wasn’t much of your parents left---not enough for a funeral---" and Dumbledore trailed off, embarrassed at having had to bring such a subject up.

"I want those accounts." Hermione’s words were clipped and her voice was icily precise. "Have them turned into wizard money at Gringott’s, and put that into my account there. As for funerals, a simple double memorial service will have to do. My parents were never much on post-mortem display; they always said that it was in the worst possible taste." With that, Hermione got up, and went toward the door, as Professor Dumbledore, Mrs. Weasley and Harry Potter gaped at each other.

When she was gone, Professor Dumbledore and Mrs. Weasley exchanged amazed looks. "Mr. Potter? Keep an eye on her. I don’t know how she’s going to react when it hits home, but I want you and Mr. Weasley there for her, do you hear me?" said Professor Dumbledore, as Mrs. Weasley nodded vigorously in agreement.

"Will do, Professor. However, what you just saw---I don’t think it was grief."

"How is that, Harry?" asked Mrs. Weasley. "I thought the poor little girl would have been in floods! Is she in shock?"

Harry got up to go. "No, Mrs. Weasley. I’ve seen that expression before. The first time I ever saw it, she slapped Draco Malfoy across the mouth a few seconds later for sneering at Hagrid. I don’t think that’s grief at all. I think that she’s angrier than I’ve ever seen her."

* * * * *

Over the next few days, Harry kept an anxious eye on Hermione. She disappeared from school one day, coming back in formal Muggle clothes. "I was at my parents’ memorial service, Harry," she answered in the same clipped, precise monotone she had been using, when Harry asked her where she had been.

"And---why didn’t you tell me? I’d have been happy to come, and so would Harry!" Ron Weasley asked. He had been shocked by the news of the Grangers’ deaths, and had awkwardly extended his condolences to Hermione, only to be as nonplussed by her icy control as anybody else. Everybody in Hogwarts walked on tiptoes around her, not knowing whether she’d go off or not, or what might do it.

"No time. Also, I needed to talk to my parents’ solicitor, and to their bank representatives, and you couldn’t have been any use there," answered Hermione, heading for the library with a big roll of parchment and a quill. "I visited Gringott’s as well. Private business." With that, she swept past them and ducked into the library, heading for the back files of Potion Monthly and The Daily Prophet. Ron looked at Harry and they both shrugged their shoulders.

The girls reported that Hermione wasn’t neglecting her Head Girl duties; if anything, she was even stricter than before. "It’s like living under Erzsebet Bathory, or the Empress Theodora!" moaned Ginny Weasley. "One foot out of line, one look wrong, and she’s down on you like an avalanche, taking points off your house and passing out detentions like they were going out of style!"

"You could try obeying the rules, Ginny," murmured Harry. Ginny gave him an exasperated swat.

"Even obeying the rules isn’t always enough! The prefects are frightened of her, for the gods’ sake! At least she’s spending a lot of time in the library, and we can study in our common rooms without her leaping all over us!" Ginny was studying hard for her N.E.W.T.s, which she was going to take the next year. Hermione had already swept her own N.E.W.T.s, with higher scores than anybody could remember. Ron had taken a couple, in Defense Against the Dark Arts and Charms, and Harry had done well in Charms, Defense Against the Dark Arts, Flying, of course, and Transfiguration.

"But---she’s passed all her N.E.W.T.s, so why is she in the library?" wondered Ron. "Doesn’t she already have her Apparition licence?"

"She’s Hermione. The library’s her second home." Still and all, Harry felt that Ron’s question was interesting, and his mind teased at it as he went through the motions of getting ready for his graduation. Whenever he saw Hermione, she was either in the library, heading to or from the library, or receiving mysterious packages. Finally, he managed to waylay her in a corridor.

They were leaving the Great Hall after breakfast, and Hermione had received yet another package from a delivery owl. She was stalking off to the library with it under her arm, and passed Harry in the corridor without acknowledging him or even seeming to notice that he was there.

"Hullo, Hermione. Are you angry at me?" She whirled, her dark eyes wide and her hand going for her wand---now that Harry thought about it, she did seem very twitchy lately. "Easy, Hermione! It’s me---Harry Potter!" He raised his hands in sign of peace. "I just wanted to talk to you! It’s been ages since we talked---are you angry at me?"

Hermione seemed to focus on him, her mind coming back from some distant realm. She lowered her wand with an embarrassed smile. "Oh, hullo, Harry. Look, I’d love to stay and gab, but I’ve tons of work to do yet. Must run!"

"Hermione!" At his call, she turned, raising one of her thick dark eyebrows in an approximation of her old quizzical look. For a second, she looked like the old Hermione again. "We’ve done our N.E.W.T.s! You passed them! You got some of the highest marks in the history of European magical education, for the gods’ sake! What are you doing?"

"Oh---yes, I did, didn’t I?" Hermione actually grinned her old grin, the one Harry loved---the one that flashed across her face in a second, so that if you blinked, you’d miss it. It did his heart good to see it; the old Hermione was not gone. "Half a mo’---how did you know that my marks were among the highest in history?"

Harry grinned back at her. "I finally took your advice. I read Hogwarts: A History." Of course, Professor Dumbledore had announced the fact at dinner when her results were in, and given Gryffindor twenty-five points for producing such a student. Had Hermione been there? Of course she had! Something was very, very wrong here…

"In any case, Harry, I do have a very big project on. It’s nothing you can help me with, but you’re very sweet to worry about me. This is something I have to do alone." With that, Hermione vanished down the corridor in a swirl of black robes, leaving Harry even more puzzled.

* * * * *

Over the next few days, Harry kept a discreet eye on Hermione, both in person and through her roommates. Parvati Patil and Lavender Brown were both as puzzled by her as Harry was, and were very relieved that he had noticed.

"She’s been going through recent Daily Prophets a lot. She’ll read through an issue, making notes with her Dicta-Quill, put it aside, then go on to the next one. She’s gone as far back as our fourth year---I spotted her going through ones that were all on about ‘The Boy Who Lived’ competing in the Triwizard Tournament." reported Parvati.

"Has she told you what she’s up to?" asked Harry. Parvati shook her head, her huge dark eyes filling with tears.

"No---and it scares me! Ever since she heard her mum and dad were dead, she’s been---driven! Gods, if she’d only break down and cry! Lavender and the rest of us in her room just ache inside for her, but she’s shut us out too!" Parvati buried her face in her hands, sobbing softly. "I’m just so scared for her! I’m scared! I think she’s going ‘round the bend, but Madam Pomfrey says she can’t do anything unless Hermione comes for help, and Hermione’s too proud---she’d rather die than admit she’s having trouble!" With that, Parvati broke down completely, burying her face in Harry’s shoulder and howling. Harry held her and let her weep herself out, rocking her gently, grateful that she couldn’t see his tears.

When Harry next caught Hermione, he blocked her passage. "Okay, Hermione, out with it. Your roommates are worried sick about you, and so am I, and so are all the rest of your friends. What have you been up to?"

Hermione regarded him narrowly, before putting on a sunny smile. "Why, Harry, I’m just putting pieces of a puzzle together. You know me; any intellectual challenge and I’m all over it in a trice. This one’s been a real brain-strainer, but I’m almost to a solution."

"Are you?" The thought that Hermione had been trying to distract herself came to Harry’s mind. It made a certain amount of sense; work was a traditonal anodyne for grief, after all. Hermione moved closer, and all of a sudden, she tripped and fell against him, sending them both sprawling over the polished stone floor. "Oh---Hermione, I’m sorry!"

"No, I’m sorry, for being such a clot. Here, let me help you up, Harry." Hermione was first on her feet, and pulled Harry up, just as a group of giggling fifth-year girls came by. At the sound of their giggles, she rounded on them, her eyes going icy. "Not got enough work to do? I can find some for you!" The girls retreated, eyes wide with terror. Even Harry was a little scared of her. He thought that in this mood, she’d have had Professor Snape walking softly.

"’Bye, Harry! Got to run! Lots of things to do!" And with that, Hermione was off, leaving Harry shaking his head in wonder. He knew that his appearance wasn’t all it could be, what with having fallen on the floor, so he straightened his robes and reached into his pocket for his comb. After a search through all his pockets, he decided that he must have left it in his dorm, by his four-poster bed.

But it wasn’t there, either.

* * * * *

A few days later, Harry forgot all about Hermione’s odd behavior, when the Death Eaters attacked Hogwarts in full force. The first he, or anybody in the castle, knew that they were there was when a volley of spells blasted into the outer walls, shaking the building. In the Great Hall, where Harry was eating his breakfast, the spells enchanting the ceiling flickered and went out, as the students screamed in fear.

Professor Dumbledore fired off some firecrackers from his wand, and the students quieted down. "All students are to return to their dormitories immediately. The Ministry of Magic has been alerted, and Aurors are on their way. This attack cannot succeed, but we do not wish to lose any of our students!" Dumbledore’s words calmed the students, and they filed out, hurrying along the stone corridors to their dormitories. Outside the castle, Harry could hear the shouts and screams as Death Eaters and Aurors waged war, and flashes of green light could be seen through the windows occasionally.

Finally, after what seemed forever, the Death Eaters were driven off, and an Auror came in to announce the all-clear. Ron, in his capacity as Head Boy, passed the word along to the Gryffindor dormitories. As he left, Lavender Brown came running up.

"Ron!" Ron had just been talking to Harry, telling him about the attack on the castle, and they both turned in surprise. "Have you seen Hermione? She wasn’t in our dorm room, and Madam Pince says she wasn’t in the library. Do you know if she’s all right?"

Ron and Harry looked at each other; Harry could see that Ron was paler than usual, and he knew that he looked just as worried. "Get the prefects---I’ll start a search for her." snapped Ron, and Lavender nodded and ran off.

The prefects reported back an hour later that there was no sign of Hermione in any of her usual spots. They’d checked the girls’ bathrooms, and she wasn’t in any of them; Hagrid reported that he hadn’t seen her in quite a while, and that he was wondering how she was; Madam Pince said that she’d been in the library, but had left an hour before the Death Eater attack and hadn’t come back; she had been in the Great Hall when the attack hit, but had never made it back to her room. Ron looked at Harry with a puzzled expression.

"I---I hate to say this, Ron," said Harry, his voice sounding strange and strained to his own ears, "but could the Death Eaters have somehow taken her?" Ron turned as white as a sheet. He thought about it for a second, then shook his head.

"Unlikely. If they ran across her and knew her for a Muggle-born, they’d kill her, but they wouldn’t take her captive. The person I was most worried about them capturing was you, Harry." Harry nodded; this agreed with his own assessment of the situation. Voldemort had been offering rewards to whichever Death Eater brought him Harry Potter alive, according to the Ministry’s intelligence wizards. "Apparently the Dark Lord thinks that you’re personally necessary for some spell or other that’ll ensure his victory."

Harry nodded. "Like what happened at the cemetery in Little Hangleton." Even after nearly three years, that memory was enough to induce a shudder, as he remembered Peter Pettigrew cutting him for the blood that had been used to revive Lord Voldemort, and Voldemort’s own fingers touching him.

As he and Ron stood there, puzzling, Parvati Patil came up to them. "Harry? Ron? Have you found Hermione?" She looked frightened. "During the attack, our room was hit, and we found---well, we thought you needed to see it." She tugged at Harry’s arm, and he allowed himself to be led along, Ron following with a puzzled expression on his face.

The girls’ room was like Harry’s own room, although the décor was very different. The girls had been there for seven years, and had put their own touch on things, giving a feminine feel to the room in contrast to the boys’ room with its Quidditch posters. Parvati pointed to one corner, where Hermioine’s bed had stood against the wall. It had been tipped over by a blast against the outside wall, and Hermione’s trunk was standing open. Harry crossed over to it, curious to see what had gotten Parvati into such a swivet.

At first, he couldn’t see anything out of the ordinary in the swirl of clothing and books, but then it struck him. "Blimey---those are my robes! And that’s my old sweater---the one I couldn’t find! What was she doing with those?" Something familiar on the floor caught his eye, and he picked it up and pocketed it almost without thinking, before he remembered what he’d found. "That’s my comb! It has my name on it! Why would she take my comb?"

Ron was paging through the papers and books he’d found. "Hold on---these are copies of Potion Weekly. I didn’t even know she’d subscribed!" He looked more closely. "That’s odd---she’s circled this advert here: ‘For All Your Potion-Brewing Needs: Try Paracelsus Potion Supplies, Suppliers to Alchemists Since 1376. Our late founder, Mr. Nicholas Flamel, devoted his life to ensuring that all wizards and alchemists seeking to brew potions had access to the finest ingredients and materials, and we are very proud to carry on his tradition. We may say without fear of contradiction that our selection is larger and our prices more reasonable than any other firm. Owl us with inquiries or orders at Box 17, 34 Etern Alley, Edinburgh, Scotland."

"Here’s an order blank she discarded, it looks like." Harry held it up to the light to read it better. "What in the world could she have wanted with boomslang skin? Not to mention these other ingredients…" He began to read a receipt from Paracelsus: "One dozen lacewing flies, eight ounces powdered bicorn horn, twelve ounces dried knotgrass…" All of a sudden, Harry felt a cold chill running down his back. Those ingredients were familiar…

Ron held up an empty cardboard box. "Here’s something else that’s awfully rum, Harry. Apparently she wasn’t just shopping wizard businesses---this box, it says here, held a pair of clear-lensed theatrical glasses. Round ones ---like---the---ones---you---wear." Ron and Harry looked at each other in horror, as the realization hit them both at once. "Oh, gods, Harry, you don’t think she---"

Harry felt sick and shaky inside, and started to tremble. "I’m afraid so. When she heard what the Death Eaters did, she didn’t cry. She got angry. I’m afraid she’s got a plan to get close to Lord Voldemort, and it looks like it was a pretty good one, too!"

* * * * *

Voldemort was in his glory. The attack on Hogwarts, which he had intended mostly as a show of power, had worked beyond all expectations. When Peter Pettigrew had reported back in with his captive over one shoulder, bound and glaring over a filthy gag, he had hardly been able to contain himself.

"Oh, well done, well done Wormtail! You’ve brought me my greatest enemy! With Harry Potter, my plan is complete!" Voldemort bent down and peered into the captive’s face. "I’ve waited a long time for this day!" A roundhouse slap sent a pair of round glasses flying across the room to shatter against the wall.

"Well, Harry, now that I have you here, you can witness my final victory!" The captive’s green eyes narrowed at this statement. "In any case, I’m now fully ready to cast my ultimate spell!" For a second, a look that would have been sadness flickered across the Dark Lord’s face. "If only my dear Nagini was here. I owe you for her, you know. I still remember the day you killed her, last year."

Pettigrew bent and prepared a huge cauldron, very like the one that Voldemort had emerged from after his rebirthing, in Little Hangleton Council Cemetery. A snap of his silver fingers, and a fire was dancing under the cauldron. Meanwhile, Voldemort opened a box inscribed with arcane runes, lifting out an object that the eyes refused to focus on. "Careful there, Wormtail," cautioned Voldemort. "This artifact is very, very tricky to use. In fact, I’d rather you just watched while I cast the spells---they’re far beyond your powers."

As he cast, Voldemort explained to Wormtail: "This artifact, along with the spells I’m casting, will drop all the magical defenses on Hogwarts, which will allow my faithful Death Eaters to destroy the place. It’s very complicated, and these are dangerous to cast. If I’m interrupted during casting, the consequences will be disastrous. However, Harry---" Voldemort turned to point his wand at his captive---"I’ve taken precautions against this day. Since we share blood, I can cast spells especially designed to render you helpless!" Voldemort raised his wand and shouted words of power, and the captive slumped, green eyes rolling and unfocussed, in the magical bonds Pettigrew had conjured up.

"First, we need to cast the protective matrix spell," murmured Voldemort, leaning over the artifact and murmuring words of power, waving his yew-and-phoenix-feather wand. A green glowing globe came out of the artifact, expanding to take in Voldemort, Wormtail, and their unconscious captive. Turning to a wide-eyed Wormtail, Voldemort condescended to explain: "This spell protects us from all outside threats. Nothing---and I mean nothing, not the Old Fool nor the entire Ministry of So-Called Magic---can get through that protection. Without it, we’d be in terrible danger. This series of spells could backlash and kill everything in a hundred-yard radius if my elbow was so much as joggled."

Voldemort cast spell after spell, and power grew and throbbed through their hideout. Pettigrew watched with fascination, feeling the magical energies throbbing around him. Behind them, there was a soft rustle, but neither wizard paid any attention; they were both absorbed with their work.

At the end of an unguessable time, a huge vortex of magical energy throbbed and twisted in the middle of the room, as Pettigrew gaped in awe and Voldemort smiled proudly. "With this, Wormtail, I can drop the defenses on Hogwarts---and Diagon Alley, and the Ministry of so-called Magic, all at once! This is the culmination of years of work and research!"

Pettigrew nodded eagerly, anxious as always to ingratiate himself with his master. The next thing he knew, he was lying across the room from where he had been standing, the back of his robes smoking from the levinbolt that had struck him. Voldemort was staring in shock and amazement; he had been caught off-guard himself.

* * * * *

Harry Potter ran to Professor Dumbledore’s office, pushing through chattering crowds of students, frantic to tell his mentor what he had deduced. Ron Weasley was right beside him, and Ginny was running after her brother. In a distant part of his mind, Harry noticed how people were getting right out of his way just when he wanted them to, but didn’t pause to consider why. Only when he skidded to a stop outside of Dumbledore’s office did he notice that Ron and Ginny were pocketing their wands, their faces grim. "Did you spell people out of our way?" asked Harry, as he tried to get his breath back; although he was athletic, he wasn’t used to running so far so fast.

Ron brushed a strand of red hair out of his face, and nodded, gasping for air. Ginny gave Harry a radiant grin. "Sure did, Harry. We needed speed, so we used some of those simple crowd-control spells that we learned last year in Defense against the Dark Arts." She winked at his expression; Harry knew that he must look slightly shocked. "Hey---it’s an emergency. If anybody gets in my face about it, I did it at the direction of the Head Boy, and Ron does have the authority to do things like that in emergencies."

Ron gasped out the password and the three tumbled into Professor Dumbledore’s office. The old wizard looked up at them in surprise, and stopped dictating a letter. "I assume, from your appearance and your apparent hurry---I could feel those crowd-control spells clear up here, you know; I invented them in the first place---that this is not a social call?" His stare sharpened. "Is this to do with Miss Granger? Have you found her?"

"No---no, we didn’t find her, Professor," panted Ron. He held up his hand to forestall Dumbledore’s expostulations. "We think we know what she is doing. She’s going to need help. Lots of help, and right now!"

"What do you mean?" Professor Dumbledore stood up, and Harry noticed that his kindly-old-duffer persona was shed like a snake’s outgrown skin. "Has she been taken? Wouldn’t the Death Eaters know that she was Muggle-born?" He looked puzzled for a second. "Of all the people here, I’d think that Voldemort would go after you, Mr. Potter. He hates you and he knows that you’re somehow essential to his defeat."

"He thought he had captured me, Professor Dumbledore," said Harry quietly. At this, Dumbledore sat down suddenly, his eyes going wide. "She’s been planning this for a longish while, I think. She’s quite the cleverest student in the school, and when she got the word about her parents, you remember she didn’t cry---she got angry. She got potion ingredients and apparently brewed up a few hours’ worth of Polyjuice potion, and just waited for the opportunity to let herself be captured. She stole my comb, to get some of my hair, and got some of my old clothes and robes---I’d suspect that the house-elves helped her on that---and even went to the trouble of ordering a pair of glasses like mine from a theatrical-supplies house."

"Miss Granger was always quite thorough in her preparations for anything. If we get her back alive, I shall award her fifty points for ingenuity---and take off twenty points for needlessly risking her life." Professor Dumbledore got up and went to his cupboard. Opening it, he pulled out a magical device. "This is a new, experimental upgrade of the Foe-Location device---you may remember that from your fourth year." Harry nodded, remembering the man he had trusted who had turned out to be a Death Eater, as Dumbledore went on: "I can use this to determine where Voldemort is at any given time. It is experimental, at best, but it’s our best hope."

* * * * *

From his vantage-point on the floor, Pettigrew stared in shock. Where he had left a thoroughly trussed-up and bespelled Harry Potter, a vaguely-familiar young woman was standing, with Harry Potter’s clothes all but falling off her smaller frame. As he watched, she casually shielded herself from Voldemort’s first attack and kicked her feet free of Harry Potter’s trousers and shoes. Standing there, disheveled, even half-dressed, with Harry Potter’s shirt coming down to the middle of her thighs and his robes falling off her, she did not look alluring at all. Pettigrew whimpered in fear at the look in her eyes. They were calm, the terrible calm of one who has gone through insanity, and is on the far side of it---the calm of an executioner doing his duty.

Voldemort was the first to speak. "Who are you? You’re not Harry Potter!" The young woman shook her head, and smiled. Pettigrew wished she hadn’t smiled. There was something about that smile that made it even worse than the calm expression she had had earlier. It was a happy smile, a triumphant smile. The smile of someone who has manouvered her foe into a situation of her own choosing.

"No, I’m not Harry Potter, Riddle," and Voldemort visibly started as she addressed him by his unadorned family name. "My name’s Granger. Hermione Jessica Granger, to give my full name. I don’t expect you to remember my name---or to know it---but then, I suppose when you’ve killed so many, the name of one or two innocent victims is not particularly memorable!" The last word came out in a full-throated shriek of rage, as her face twisted into a demonaic rictus. "You thought you had Harry Potter, but you’ve got me instead, you poor damned fool!"

Voldemort and Pettigrew were both staring, gobsmacked, as Hermione stepped forward. She had a wand out, and was pointing it at them. "Why did you kill my parents, Riddle?" Her voice was calm, but there were overtones to it that made Pettigrew tremble with fear---they warned of terrible danger. "Whatever you had against me, you had against me---they knew almost nothing of the magical world, and certainly weren’t to blame for what I did, or what Harry Potter did." Hermione shook her head ruefully, as though she were reproving a pupil who had not performed up to expectation. "Didn’t you know that Abbie Hoffman once said ‘Random violence produces random political results---why waste even a rock?’" She smiled again, her mouth twisting.

"You’re Harry Potter’s friend---the Mudblood!" gasped Pettigrew. Hermione turned her Gorgon stare on him, and he shrank back.

"Right the first time, Pettigrew---to use words you’ve never heard before and never will again." Hermione pointed her wand at Pettigrew and snarled "Petrificus Totalus!" As Pettigrew collapsed, paralyzed, Hermione turned her attention back to the Dark Lord. "Now, it’s just you and me, Riddle. A lot of your precautions were based on the idea that you’d be duelling with Harry Potter. Too bad, but you and I, Riddle, share no blood, and your spells won’t work on me!"

"But---if you’re not Harry Potter---oh, gods, my spells!" Voldemort shrank back against the cauldron; the magical energies made his robes whip around him. "I planned this on the assumption that nobody would be able to disturb me! I’ve got defenses up around us that the whole Ministry couldn’t breach in time!"

"Defenses you lowered, to let Pettigrew in---with me." Hermione grinned a death’s-head grin. "The best defenses in the world can always be subverted, you know. I got the idea from you, after all---planting Barty Crouch Jr. at Hogwarts, as the Defense Against The Dark Arts teacher, no less, was a stroke of genius!" Voldemort looked nonplussed at this bit of unexpected praise. "I can say that in this, at least, I learned from the best!"

She pointed her wand at the cauldron and screamed "Reducto!" The cauldron shattered into a thousand pieces, and Voldemort’s half-finished potion poured out, stinking of sulfur and less mentionable substances. Magical energies, released by Hermione’s action, shook the walls of the room they were in. Voldemort frantically cast a spell to protect himself, and leaped out of the way of the spilling liquid as it began to eat into the floor.

"You fool! You idiot! That’s months of work you’ve destroyed!" screamed Voldemort. Pointing his wand at Hermione, he shrieked "Crucio!" A blast of magical energy leaped forth, but Hermione had ducked below it, her wand still out and at the ready. She responded with a Jelly-Legs Jinx, which hit its target and sent Voldemort staggering.

With Voldemort temporarily unable to aim, Hermione smiled and let him have a Tickling Charm, rendering him nearly helpless with laughter. Pettigrew shuddered at the sound; the only times he had ever heard his dark master laugh had been times when he was up to no good. When Voldemort got himself somewhat under control, he let fly with an Imperius Curse, only to see Hermione duck away and retaliate with a "Tarentallegra!" The Dark Lord began dancing helplessly, unable to fire off a spell.

Pettigrew suddenly understood what Hermione was doing. He knew her, better than the Dark Lord did; he’d known her for most of her first three years at Hogwarts. In rat form, he had watched and listened as she interacted with Harry Potter and Ron Weasley, his "owner." Even now, she was being her usual law-abiding self---no illegal Unforgivable Curses for Hermione Granger! She was merely keeping Voldemort distracted while his spells malfunctioned.

* * * * *

At the head of a scratch force of Aurors and others, Harry soared into the darkening sky, his Firebolt allowing him to race ahead of the others. Behind him, Ron Weasley led his brothers and sister---Bill, Percy and Charlie had abandoned their jobs, and Fred and George had left their joke shop, the second Ron’s frantic appeal for help had gone out. Flooing to Hogwarts, they had borrowed brooms from the Quidditch teams’ lockers, on Harry’s authority as the captain of the Gryffindor Quidditch team. In one of the tight battle formations they had learned while studying for their N.E.W.T.s in Defense Against the Dark Arts, they soared through the sky, following Harry.

With the tiny part of his mind not consumed with terror for his friend, Harry felt a thrill of pride and exaltation. Having friends like this---friends who would follow him into deadly danger, friends who wouldn’t count the cost---was something he wouldn’t have traded away for all the gold in Gringotts. He’d been slightly startled to find them all at the school, readying themselves for battle, when he had left Professor Dumbledore’s office.

"You didn’t think you could keep us out of this, did you?" George had asked, quirking one red eyebrow up as he checked the broom he’d be flying with a professional air. "Hmmm…a Cleansweep Eleven? Not bad---not as good as that Firebolt you fly, Harry, but not a bad broom, not a bad broom at all."

Fred had chimed in, as he put on flying clothes and hefted his borrowed broom: "Our Mum and Dad would have come, if Ron hadn’t ‘forgotten’ to notify them. Mum adores Hermione---she always wished she’d had more than one daughter, if only to have somebody else to talk about girl things with. She’d never let us hear the end of it if we didn’t do all we could to save her."

Harry’s heart had been too full to let him speak; he had clapped each of the Weasleys on the shoulder before they mounted brooms and lifted off. Behind them, about twenty Aurors came---all the Aurors at Hogwarts had volunteered for this attack, but Professor Dumbledore had vetoed that plan, saying that the Death Eaters could strike yet again. Only the strongest and most magical among them were aloft, led by Mad-Eye Moody and hot for revenge against the Death Eaters.

South they flew, scudding through clouds and avoiding the main air lanes with the ease of long practice; Harry had not been wasting his time in Madam Hooch’s Advanced Flying classes. Although the night air was chilly at the height they were at, Harry didn’t notice. He was so consumed with terror for Hermione that the icy blast of the wind hardly impinged on his consciousness.

* * * * *

In Voldemort’s hideout, the duel between the Dark Lord and his quondam captive raged on---and on, and on. Pettigrew, from his vantage-point on the floor, watched in terror, unable to escape or even protect himself, as spell was met with counter-spell, and magical energies flowed around the combatants.

If Voldemort had been undistracted, Pettigrew thought that he would have made short work of Hermione Granger; even though she was, he acknowledged, one of the most skillful witches he had ever seen, Voldemort was much more experienced than she was, and less inhibited about the methods he chose to use. But, as it was, Voldemort was forced to divide his attention between containing the power of the spells that Hermione had disrupted, and defending himself against her attacks.

Hermione, on the other hand, had no such distractions. Again and again, she sent curses and hexes and charms at Voldemort, forcing him to shield himself from her. Even though her mouth was twisted in grief, and tears were running down her face freely, her eyes never lost the weird calm that Pettigrew had first noticed.

As she fought, she spoke, her voice calm and serene: "You really never thought this would happen, did you, Riddle? To you, other people---even your precious Death Eaters---are things, things you can break at will. You never really thought that other people might have feelings, or care about what you did. You even fooled your poor Death Eaters! You can’t have cared about purity of wizard blood, but you made them think that you did."

Voldemort shrieked in terror and rage. With what little energy he could spare from holding off Hermione’s attacks and containing his own disrupted spells, he went on the attack, sending a Reductor Curse at Hermione. She saw it coming, and deflected it with a Shield Charm, and then threw everything she had into a Banishing Charm. Voldemort was hit squarely in the chest, and flew backward into the middle of the remains of his cauldron. The artifact shattered, with a noise that Pettigrew couldn’t quite have described.

The Dark Lord screamed in agony, writhing in pain as the magical energies tore at his flesh. While he was distracted, Hermione tried a Disarming spell, throwing everything she had into it, and Voldemort’s wand flew from his hand. Voldemort shouted in horror, as Hermione cried: "Accio Batonus!" and snatched the Dark Lord’s wand.

"Hermione---Miss Granger---if you give me back that wand, I’ll give you anything you want!" cried Voldemort, terror in his voice for the first time since Pettigrew had ever met him. "I’ll make you my second-in-command---my consort---my partner, my equal! Just give me back my wand!" With his last reserves of strength, Voldemort managed to roll away from his thoroughly-disrupted spell; magical energies were shaking the walls and floor, whipping Hermione’s and Voldemort’s robes around their bodies.

Hermione looked at Voldemort, playing with his wand in an absent-minded way. A strange, fey smile twisted her face. "Anything I want, Riddle? You mean that?" Pettigrew couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Of all people, he’d have least expected Hermione Granger to succumb to Voldemort’s blandishments---she was one of Harry Potter’s best friends, and the most intelligent of the Trio, in Pettigrew’s unbiassed estimation. Even Potter, or Dumbledore, with his willingness to give people second chances, would have been marginally more likely to be tempted by anything the Dark Lord said.

At the same time, Voldemort was nothing if not persuasive when he wanted to be---how well Pettigrew knew it! He had the fiend’s own talent for finding a person’s weaknesses and playing on them, and could discern what would tempt nearly anybody. For Pettigrew, he had played the part of a promising protector---for Lucius Malfoy, he had been the one who promised that the acceptance of Muggle-born mages into magical society, with its attendant eclipse of the old wizarding families by talented Muggle-borns, would come to an end. He could and would promise anything to anybody, if that person could serve him in some way in return. He even kept his promises, at least as long as they were not inconvenient or the person they were promised to did not betray or disappoint him.

Hermione asked again: "Anything I want, Riddle?" She caressed Voldemort’s wand, her fingers running up and down it.

"Anything! If nothing else, I have to have it or this thing will blow us all past Mount Olympus!" For the first time since he had met the Dark Lord, Pettigrew heard real fear in his voice, something that turned the natural order of things on its head. The Dark Lord did not feel fear---he caused it. For something to frighten him, it had to be something even more powerful than he was!

Hermione’s smile twisted into a mocking grin. "Anything? Then give me back my parents!" She shrieked the last words, raw hate making her voice raw. "Give them back, or no deal!"

"I can’t!" cried Voldemort. "Nothing can bring the dead back to life! You know that!"

"Oh, I know that," said Hermione, her voice suddenly soft and dangerous. "It’s a pity you never thought of that, isn’t it? In that case---" she twisted Voldemort’s wand, and it snapped in two in her hands. "---THUS I destroy you, Thomas Marvolo Riddle!"

The wand sparked and snapped, spitting bits of fire, and all of Voldemort’s protective spells went out at once.

The last thing Peter Pettigrew saw was a huge flash of rainbow-colored light, before the darkness claimed him forever.

* * * * *

The Foe-Locator showed Harry that they were getting in close to their target. It was a wild and un-loved area, a part of Britain that lay between England and Scotland, not far from the old Debatable Lands. As Harry and his companions came out of the bottom of the cloud cover, they were spotted, and were suddenly dodging spells from below.

Harry rolled his body over to one side of his Firebolt’s stick, sending curses back at whoever was attacking them. Then he and his friends were on the ground, spreading out in a formation they had learned in Defense Against The Dark Arts, wands at the ready. The curses seemed to have come from a rocky crag, and they headed toward it as fast as they could, since the Foe-Locator indicated that Hermione was there.

They ran smack into a well-set Death Eater ambush; Harry hit the dirt, his wand out and his heart in his mouth, as curses whizzed by over him. The Aurors and the Weasley siblings were right in behind him, and began returning fire, as Harry consulted the Foe-Locator. From what it said, they weren’t far from their target.

Just then, a new blast of spells came from a different direction, and Harry felt the nimbus of the effect of a Reductor Curse; the main blast of the spell was absorbed by an Auror near him, who was blown literally apart by the force of the curse. Acting on spinal reflex, Harry ducked and rolled, firing a Stunning Spell at the Death Eater; a scream told him that he’d at least made the evil sorcerer nervous.

To Harry’s horror, he saw that he’d led his friends into a trap. The Death Eaters had anticipated his direct assault, and had kept back a great deal of their strength, hoping to lure him into just the sort of situation he was now in. Despite their own strength and skill at spellcasting, the Weasleys were going down like ninepins, and the Aurors were in no better shape. He cursed himself for his impulsiveness…the Dark Lord would certainly have taken precautions against being traced, particularly after such a coup as capturing the "Boy Who Lived."

Just then, a huge explosion rent the air, blasting the wind from Harry’s lungs, as he was dazzled by a mighty flash of multi-colored light and the shockwave knocked him from his feet, sending him spiralling down into a dark pit.

* * * * *

When Harry came back to consciousness, he knew, before opening his eyes, that he was in the familiar surroundings of the Hogwarts infirmary. The smells, the very feel of the air---all were old friends. So we were rescued, he thought muzzily, as he forced his eyes open and groped for his glasses. I just hope poor Hermione got out all right…

When he tried to turn and reach the bedside table, he found that several of his ribs had apparently been cracked; he let out a groan before he could stop himself. Madam Pomfrey bustled over, all concern, and Harry was astonished to see that she’d been crying. She leaned over and reached his glasses for him.

"Now, just lie still and relax. You’ve got a bunch of nasty bruises, but I fixed most of the fractures before you woke up. Your friends the Weasleys, and the surviving Aurors, are in much worse case---only Mr. Fred Weasley’s in any shape to even so much as sit up." As she tried to leave, Harry’s hand darted out and he captured her hand.

"Hermione?" At that name, Madam Pomfrey’s face twisted in grief, and Harry felt his stomach twist itself into a knot of pure fear for his friend. "Hermione? How is she?"

Madam Pomfrey’s eyes welled up with tears, and she managed to free her hand---was he that weak? He had to be---normally, he could have held her easily enough. "Professor---Professor Dumbledore---he said he’d be in to talk with you, directly you were awake. I would have let you rest, but he said---"

"I said that you needed to know, Mr. Potter. You have the best right---she left clear instructions." Professor Dumbledore had been sitting nearby, but out of Harry’s line of vision, and Harry started slightly as the headmaster of Hogwarts came around to sit down beside his bed. Harry was shocked at the look of deep sorrow on the aged wizard’s face. "Mr. Potter---Harry---Miss Hermione Jessica Granger’s dead."

At this, the knot in Harry’s stomach turned into a huge bubble of pain and loss and anguish, which burst and permeated his whole being in a split-second. Heedless of his usual reserve, heedless of who might hear, he burst into wracking sobs, as the extent of his loss slammed home---like a dementor’s presence a thousand times over.

When he’d regained some self-control, he found that Professor Dumbledore was holding out a handkerchief. As he took it, he saw that his headmaster was also holding out a letter, addressed to him in a familiar, neat hand.

"When we determined that Miss Granger was missing, we were getting ready to come after you, and then we received letters. She’d enchanted a few of the school owls to only deliver these in the event that she was captured. There was one to me, and one to you." The old wizard gave him a sorrowful look. "The letter to me was private."

His hands shaking, his throat constricted with pain, Harry tore open the envelope. Inside, there were several sheets of parchment, folded, with one marked READ ME FIRST in Hermione’s neat, legible hand. He unfolded it and began to read.

Dear Harry,

When you receive this, if all goes as I’ve planned, I should be dead. It was almost like listening to Hermione speaking, in her matter-of-fact acceptance of what had to be done. Harry could almost hear her voice as he read on: I’ve got no living relatives, so I’d like for you to act as my next-of-kin at my funeral. Besides you, I’ll want Hagrid, with Madame Maxime, and the Weasleys as chief mourners. The house-elves can be pall-bearers---I wouldn’t want to leave them out. I don’t know if anybody else will want to come, but if they want to come, let them in.

Please accept my apologies for misappropriating your clothes and comb, and for disguising myself as you, but I had figured out what Voldemort was doing, and this was the only way to get at him. He’d have killed me for a Muggle-born (ironic, isn’t it, considering who his father was---the hypocritical ass!) but I knew he’d want you to gloat over, and to keep safe so you couldn’t spoil his plans.

Don’t blame yourself, Harry---or anybody else. This was my plan from beginning to end, and I knew what the price was, going in. I know you’d have offered yourself in my place---so I pre-empted the possibility, on the chance that Voldemort’s spells would be calibrated for you, not me. Getting rid of that madman’s the only thing that’s kept me sane, these last few months.

Let me close with a word I never said to you (or Ron)---and now wish I had,

Love (always),

Hermione Jessica Granger, Hogwarts ’97

Numb with shock, Harry put Hermione’s letter aside and opened the other parchment. It turned out to be a will, written out in full in her handwriting as required by ancient wizard law, and signed by seven witnesses in green ink, as wizard custom had decreed since the days of the Founders.

His face set, Harry swung his legs over to the edge of the bed. Madam Pomfrey squeaked and tried to get him to lie back down.

"Take me to her."

"But, Harry, dear, she’s----she’s---"

"Take me to where she is, or by the Triple Hecate, I’ll find her myself!" Harry’s voice was raw from weeping, and rage made it even more so. "I know you’ve got some sort of facilities for that---I remember poor Cedric Diggory---so take me to where you’ve got her!" Madam Pomfrey gave Professor Dumbledore a helpless look, and whatever she saw in his face made her bustle away for a wheelchair.

When Harry managed to get his feet onto the floor, he found that Hogwarts seemed to be rocking like a ship at sea, and he gratefully accepted the chance to ride in the wheelchair. As he was wheeled down the ward, he saw Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, but they didn’t see him---they were bent over another bed, and he could see that they’d been crying.

"Even Miss Weasley joined in the fight. The Weasleys will live, but they’re almost all in very bad condition. Otherwise, I’d probably have Molly Weasley jittering about you---or in floods over poor little Miss Granger," commented Madam Pomphrey in an undertone.

Madam Pomphrey wheeled Harry into a room he had never noticed, a quiet, rather dark room with a high vaulted ceiling, smelling of flowers and disinfectant. Some daylight came in from Gothic windows high above the bare stone floor.

In the center of the room, with an honor guard of Aurors standing with heads bowed and wands reveresed, Hermione lay on a catafalque with a sheet covering her up to her armpits,. her hands on her chest. At her head and feet, candleabras burned, shedding an aureate glow over her. Harry squeezed his eyes shut until he felt the wheelchair stop beside her. He could hear the Aurors murmuring to each other:

"It’s him---Harry Potter, the Boy who Lived."

"She designated him as her next-of-kin---he has the right to say farewell now."

She looked almost untouched, somehow---as though she’d been hit with the Killing Curse. That was a relief, although seeing her sweet face so still and empty tore at Harry’s heart. Her hair was in wild disarray and she was still dressed in her borrowed Harry-Potter costume. One of her hands was clenched around her wand, and at the sight of that---as though, even now, she was not willing to give up her struggle, even in victory---Harry felt grief threaten to overwhelm him yet again. He summoned all his strength, and stood by Hermione’s side, as the Aurors watched him sympathetically.

"Oh, Hermione---Hermione, why didn’t you tell me what you planned? Why did you do it? Couldn’t you have confided in me, or Ron?" He siezed her hand, the one that didn’t have the wand, and clutched it convulsively, as though he were trying to infuse it with the warmth of life.

"She’ll get full wizard honors, Mr. Potter," murmured an Auror. "There’s no other way it could be---what she did destroyed the Dark Lord beyond any possibility of his ever coming back. "You should be proud of your friend, Mr. Potter. She saw what had to be done, and she did it."

"Yes---but the price was too high!" Harry all but howled. "I’d be willing to have the Dark Lord back if I could have her back! I’d have gone, if she’d not been so clever about fooling everybody!"

"She knew that, Mr. Potter," said Professor Dumbledore. "She’s going to be honored by wizard society all over the world, not least for offering herself in your place. It truly was a clever plan, and only she could have done it---or would have had the cold determination to do it." The old wizard put his hand on Harry’s shoulder. "And now, I think you’d better get back into bed. You’ve taxed your strength---and the house-elves have to get her ready for her funeral. You don’t want to be here for that."

"I---I know, Professor. Just let me say goodbye, please!" Harry leaned over and kissed Hermione’s cool cheek, and then her hands. "Hermione---I’ll see that your will’s carried out---I’ll make sure the wizard world never forgets you---Hermione, dear Hermione, the magic world was blessed when you joined it!"

"Harry---your eloquence leaves me with nothing I can add," murmured Professor Dumbledore, as he wheeled Harry out and back to his bed. Harry was thankful to see that the Weasley parents were both asleep, grabbing cat-naps near their childrens’ beds. "You’re right. We were all highly blessed when we met Hermione."

Then why didn’t we appreciate her more when we had her? was the question Harry wanted to ask, as he sank back down into his bed and fell asleep.

FINIS