Falls The Shadow, a harry potter fanfic

Title: Falls The Shadow
Author: Talriga
Summary: A Horcrux hunt; a final battle; death; and the aftermath of war. Redemption, resurrection, and restoration, in four parts. HP, SS, gen.
Category/Ships: Drama, angst. Gen.
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
Author's Note: This story was begun way back in October of 2005, when I first decided to try my hand at fanfic. Needless to say, it has... well, evolved. My other story, Beyond This Place of Wrath and Tears, became my main story, but this story kept nudging me every once in a while, and I began to write more of it during my writer's block with WT. Just so you know, the situation in FtS is different from that in WT, i.e. the Horcruxes, their locations, etc. Also, this story will not be updated as much, although I must point out that it will only be 4 chapters anyway. :)

The title is taken from T.S. Eliot's "The Hollow Men." As always, hope you enjoy!

eyes I dare not meet in dreams

-t.s. eliot, the hollow men

When I first came to Hogwarts to teach Potions—and spy for Albus, although the Dark Lord thought it was for him—it was still a few months before the Dark Lord's defeat (no, I can't think defeat, but the phrase "a momentary lapse in proceedings" will do quite nicely; of course, even that would not sit nicely with the Dark Lord).

I remember sitting in Albus's office, pointedly refusing a sticky sherbet lemon, and saying to the venerable old man, "Don't you agree that the students should know what it's like to be a Death Eater?"

Albus's twinkling blue eyes surveyed me over the top of his crazy-looking half-moon glasses—I badgered him forever about those silly spectacles. "And what do you have in mind, Severus?" (I'm quite sure that he knew full well what I had in mind. That devious savant.)

Thus, he implicitly gave me full license to terrorise my students for the next fifteen years. I have always maintained that nothing puts off thoughts of becoming a Death Eater quite as much as old school time memories of having a feared and suspected Death Eater, also known as the scowling Potions professor and terror of Hogwarts, hovering over you as you work. As a side bonus, my decided nastiness also turned out the highest number of good OWL and NEWT scores in a while, although Minerva was always one for shooting me slightly exasperated and disapproving looks. Albus was more understanding. "Whatever helps the student," he would say merrily. "They'll remember every single potions recipe, and you too, Severus."

As of now, of course, after tonight, they will be more likely to remember me as the murderer of Albus Dumbledore. They will huddle around and whisper about the betrayer. The traitor.

I know I'm no traitor. I did what Albus made me do. I will be no traitor until I fail in retrieving the other Horcruxes. The fact is that until tonight, there were two who knew that. Now there is only one. I can imagine the scene in the Hogwarts infirmary: Poppy desperately wringing her hands, Minerva's eyes red with grief, and everyone else asking why.

Because Albus told me to. He could have given me the word fifteen years ago, and I would have done it. We agreed on it, although I fought it to the bitter end. In the last argument we had over the arrangement, he said to me, "Severus, you know I am expendable. I am old. And it is for the good of the whole that I must die."

In answer, I replied, rather bitterly, "The road to hell is paved with good intentions."

And Albus smiled sadly at me, and said nothing more.

I silently walk down the country road. It is a far distance from Hogwarts in Scotland. I am in the Devonshire moor, full of melancholy and quite mysterious. Much like my own personality, I must say, though it is hard to separate my true personality from my masks. And there are plenty: hatred of Potter and Gryffindors in general, favouritism toward Slytherins, contempt for anything silly…

The problem with masks, I said once to Albus, is that sometimes the masks graft themselves onto you. And then you will not be able to tell the difference.

Now that is chilling. Pretending is one thing, losing your individuality is another.

Behind me, one of those dark, forbidding hills that Devonshire is so famed for rises up from the eerie shadows of the moor. There are clumps of dripping moss and crowding green ferns, and the wind whips at branches, causing the trees to cast ominous shadows across my path. The country road I am walking is one of those types of roads that has not been used in a long time; the only indications that it was ever put to use in any capacity are the deeply rutted imprints of wagon wheels, and even those are fading. The region where I am is one of the more deserted parts of England, and that is the chief reason why I am here.

As I continue walking, my eye is caught by one of those infernally twisted and runted trees. Something glints in the light. I stop, and as I come closer, I can see a small phoenix pendant hanging from a branch and knocking against the trunk of the tree.

"Ingenious, Albus," I whisper, and as I wave my wand, I detect wards around the area. Good, so only I can feel the wards—they will lie undetected for others. I nod and say quietly, "Faire enrager quelqu'un." I have a faint inkling of where Albus got the password—it is French for "get someone's goat," and there is no doubt in my mind that it is connected to his brother Aberforth and his uncommon fondness for those of the… goatish persuasion.

As I take a decisive step past the tree, I feel a faint tickling sensation as the wards check my identity, and then suddenly a house pops into existence in front of my eyes. It is a rather compact house, with large plots of land around it, useful for growing herbs and materials I need in potions. We thought of everything.

I stride up the beaten path to the safe house, where I will be staying for as long as needed. It was set up by Albus and me, and he whimsically named it Twelfth Night, after some Muggle play. After Hogwarts, Draco and I went to the Dark Lord's headquarters—the Riddle house—to give a report. Draco, miraculously, escaped the Cruciatus. I was praised (as expected) and the Dark Lord told me to lie low until he has further orders for me. No-one bothered to ask me where I would go—locations are dangerous pieces of information, and even the Dark Lord doesn't inquire about hiding places. Of course, this has more to do with his unending sense of superiority, intelligence, and arrogance than with actual concern about having information leaked to the Order. And the Dark Lord has always loved to boast about his successes. Even as I left the meeting, he kept gloating about Albus's death to an attentive (and deranged) audience by the name of Bellatrix Lestrange, whose rapt attention was broken every once in a while by brief flickers of annoyance whenever he mentioned my name. She doesn't like to be reminded that she failed last year, while I have succeeded.

I have succeeded, indeed, and beyond my wildest dreams. Although the Dark Lord would not be so happy if he knew what I really meant by that. No-one alive knows what I mean by that, but me.

I reach into my pocket and close my fingers around a cool, bronze key. When I pull it out and look at it, it seems singularly ordinary, although it isn't, considering the scheme of things—and the fact that it is the key to a desperately wanted fugitive's house. I unlock the door and push it open, and as I come in, the torches along the walls begin glowing, flames flaring into being. The front hall is flooded with light, and I blink for a moment. But now my thoughts are broken by a familiar voice.

A very familiar, fondly irritating voice. I think of sherbet lemons, and cannot help the faint and utterly sincere smile on my face. If Potter saw me now, he'd go into a fit of apoplexy. And not just because I'm smiling. After all, there is that other small matter of tonight's events…

"Did you do what I said, Severus?"

"Yes, I did, per se your orders," I say irritably, closing the door behind me and locking it again. "Did you think I wouldn't?" But my irritation hides my weariness and my buried sadness, and the speaker hears it too.

"Of course not," came the voice again. "I know you too well. You aren't that type of man."

I walk into the kitchen, and keep my face composed as I look up. Suspended upon the wall is a portrait of Albus Dumbledore. He secretly made two portraits of himself: One lies in the Hogwarts office; the other is here. I pointed out to him at the time that it would be very useful for me to hear anything of what went on at Hogwarts, especially as Minerva might hold meetings in the office (prompted, of course, by portrait Albus's advice). Albus had common sense, surprisingly; he agreed.

Now, as I look at the portrait, all I feel is a sort of vague relief that I will not be alone in my new endeavour. Albus may be dead in real life, but his imprint is still as wise and witty as the real Albus was, and I have a feeling I'll need his advice in the future. Dodging both ruthless Aurors and enraged Order members is not a situation I like to reflect upon.

Then again, neither is being a Death Eater.

"Severus," says Albus. "If you can enlighten me as to what has happened…"

I nod, briefly, and as I break the seal on a bottle of butterbeer, I begin to tell him about the very thoroughly exciting night I had—sarcasm evident. He only chuckles and smiles, but he is all ears. His eyes gleam in the bright light, and his painted face is hard with determination to win.

And I wonder how I will be able to do this enormous task that he has set for me.

I clap a reassuring hand to Draco's shoulder when the Dark Lord calls him forward. He turns his silver-blonde head slightly to look at me, and I see the glance of unadulterated fear. He shivers in the biting, early November air.

He is so young, and he already suffers under the yoke of an oppressor more insidious then most I have known. For he has been brainwashed from birth, forced into his unstable position as Death Eater, and is clearly unsuited to the task.

He seems to have latched onto me as a mentor. I've allowed him to do so, but only because all of the other Death Eaters are, quite frankly, even poorer company than Draco. Most have lost at least a part of their rationality and minds, owing to the Dementors of Azkaban (note Rabastan Lestrange, who goes into occasional fits of mad laughter—a truly chilling sound, I admit). Those are the Death Eaters whom the Dark Lord finally freed from Azkaban a few months ago, and even though their stay that year was without Dementors, their sanity has not returned. Narcissa tends to cry a lot. The rest are all just bloodthirsty and bigoted. Draco, on the other hand, is a scared, spoiled brat who clearly doesn't know what to do at all. Not exactly what I wished for as a companion, but it is better than most. And sometimes I cannot help but feel a little twinge of pity for him. I've heard that he stays at the Riddle house, and I wonder how he manages to make it through the day with the Dark Lord watching his every move.

But I push those thoughts away, and concentrate on the task at hand. I have been doing it regularly for the last few Death Eater meetings, and I cannot make any mistakes. If I do, I die.

Draco steps into the centre of the Death Eater circle, and I swear for a moment that I can literally see him tremble like a treacherously leaning pile of firewood, ready to tumble to pieces.

The Dark Lord rises from his throne. "Draco Malfoy," he says. His voice is sibilant, soft, hissing like a snake's, nearly hypnotising in tone. I allow a third of my mind to note his words, and spend the other two-thirds in creating a subtle Legilimency attack. "I gave you a task, to kill Dumbledore. You failed, true, but I did not expect you to succeed in the first place, and your efforts proved successful in the end, with the help of Severus." He inclines his head in my direction, and I stiffly nod. I gather all my forces in my mind, and release it slowly. It wiggles its way across the room to the dais, and I slowly, subtly enter the Dark Lord's mind. It is a venture all at once thrilling and frightening, and I am especially careful.

"However, at the very end, when Dumbledore lay in front of you, weak and helpless, you still failed to cast the Killing Curse. I am assured that this is because of your lack of experience, and not because of any weakness of heart." The Dark Lord pauses magnificently, and his red eyes meet Draco's wide grey ones. "Am I correct?"

There's really no need to ask Draco a question, I think as I flit from memory to memory, passing over ones I have already seen, and sinking into those I have not. Why would he answer no, and cross the Dark Lord?

"Yes, my Lord, you are," Draco says. His face is flushed with fear, and he looks down at the floor. In a way, this is a numbing contrast to his once conceited air. He is broken, defeated, and cannot fight. I think that Potter would be almost horrified. His noble disposition would not allow him to enjoy the degradation of even his enemy.

Typical Gryffindor, I think, but I think it without the usual disdain. Instead, there is almost a sort of weariness to my thoughts. I have spied for so long (over a decade), and I am so very tired…

But I do not allow myself to let my guard down, especially around the Dark Lord.

The Dark Lord has changed over the past few months. I remember when, panting for breath, I finally arrived several hours late to his summons, and saw him cursing Potter's all too fortunate escape. Saw with dread: the Dark Lord, again. At that time, his face was flat and white, with narrowed red eyes and slits for his nose, and his voice hissed with anger, that his two-way portkey, meant to transport him and the other Death Eaters to Hogwarts and cause a massacre, gave his enemy a way to flee his all-encompassing wrath. Now, after numerous rituals, he has at least regained a little of his former appearance.

He stands at the front, dark hair swept back impeccably, his pale face looking down at Draco. Yet one thing that remains the same is his eye colour; they are as glowing red as the day he rose from the caldron, frothing and boiling with father's bone, servant's flesh, and, above all, enemy's blood.

Potter's blood. But other, more inconspicuous, more devious people are his enemies too, like me; it is just that the Dark Lord has not realised that. It is a flaw of his, and I hope he never will realise it.

I would prefer to stay alive, after all.

"Indeed I am," agrees the Dark Lord in an almost congenial tone of voice. He must still be happy over that raid on the Weasleys, I think. All of the Weasleys escaped, I heard, but the Dementors attacking the Burrow—what type of a name for a house is that?—demolished a fair number of Aurors that appeared for the fight.

By now, I have passed over the Dark Lord's early memories of childhood (although it is shocking that he had a childhood in the first place). I was surprised at first when I found that his Occlumency shields, while amazingly reinforced and strong, did have several… weak spots. When I investigated further, I had to come to the startling conclusion that the Dark Lord thought no-one would dare attack him with Legilimency.

Ah yes, the arrogance of some. It so often destroys them. Not that I'm complaining.

And… yes, an odd memory flashes before me, from the depths of the Dark Lord's mind. I go back and enter it. A young Tom Riddle, still handsome and dark-haired, is unlocking the door to Borgin and Burkes. He slips inside, and I follow.

The Tom Riddle in the memory goes into the back room. Leaning over a loose floorboard, he wrenches it up, ignoring the bent nails, and from the voluminous folds of his billowing robes pulls out a goblet. I recognise it at once. It is the Hufflepuff goblet, gleaming gold with glory. He pulls out his wand, taps the goblet, and murmurs an incantation. The goblet's luminescent colour suddenly dims to a dirty brown, and as he places it under the floorboards, I see how well it blends into the ground.

The memory Riddle pushes the board back down, holds out his wand, and, with an elaborate flourish, proceeds to construct a series of wards around that specific floorboard, keeping most people from being able to pry it up. Wards made out of ancient runes are erected. I am halfway through watching the warding process when the Dark Lord's voice breaks my concentration. I hastily speed through the rest of the memory, and as the memory turns on his heel and walks silently out of the shop, I just as silently retreat from the Dark Lord's mind.

As Draco, shaking, agrees to learn the Dark Arts from his aunt Bellatrix, I wonder how long he—and I—will be able to survive this hellhole of death, torture, and insanity.

Borgin looks up from his desk as I come in, hood pulled over my head. I have a Glamour Charm, true, but I never trust in simple magic. To others, as of now, I am a round-faced, vapid-looking blond man, who has groggy brown eyes and is nondescript in appearance.

I purse my lips as I approach the counter. Borgin gives me a disdainful look-over, then says, bluntly, "How may I help you?"

Merlin, how I absolutely despise this disguise. It requires me to stutter, and I try hard not to scowl magnificently at Borgin. "I—I was looking for some books," I begin in as hesitant a voice as I can manage. Inwardly, I cringe at how very meek I must seem. "Do you have any?"

"You can always go to Flourish and Blotts," Borgin says dismissively. It is obvious that he does not think much of me. So much the better for me then. And, as a matter of fact, I don't think much of him. He is a spineless coward, and I say that without any doubt at all. He turns up his nose at people who he considers his inferiors, and trembles and prostrates himself before any person who is more biting and threatening than he. I idly wish that I could snap and act my usual sarcastic part, but that would ruin my own disguise.

"Not that type of book," I say, making a note of indignity enter my words. "You know why—why I'm here. For the Dark Arts."

Borgin sighs and sets aside his Daily Prophet. I steal a glance at the headline, which says "Death Eater Attack in Bristol!" (That was the Finch-Fletchley family. I didn't go on the attack, but I heard much about it from an enraged and ranting Augustus Rookwood. It was an amazing feat that all three targets survived. Of course, Death Eaters generally do not expect Muggles to shoot them repeatedly in the chest with a revolver and hit them over the head with a metal pan—very, very hard. Mr Finch-Fletchley is reputed to be a crack shot with a gun, and his wife is, quite frankly, a fierce virago. Young Castleton and McGinty never knew what hit them. As it is, Castleton is dead and McGinty is in a coma at St Mungo's, and faces the prospect of an Auror investigation, not the most pleasant thing in the world. The Dark Lord was most assuredly not pleased.)

Borgin rises to his feet and walks in somewhat of a bad temper into the back room. I try hard not to smile. So easy to gain access to the Dark Lord's Horcruxes. I wonder why in the world the Dark Lord would choose Borgin and Burkes, of all places, to hide such a very important thing. Then I remind myself that he was a lot younger back then, and the back room of Borgin and Burkes was off-limits to everyone but employees. Nowadays, anyone can walk in. I wonder, again, why the Dark Lord has not changed his hiding place; but then again, perhaps he still thinks his protections are enough—and, after all, who would suspect him of creating a Horcrux—six Horcruxes? Really, he is being too conceited.

As Borgin closes the back room door behind me and turns to ask what type of book I'm looking for, I smirk uncontrollably, pull out my wand, and say, "Stupefy." The jet of red light hits him in the chest and he collapses to the floor.

I lift him and manoeuvre him to the side of the room, where he will not interfere with my job. I grip my wand tightly and stroll over to the loose floorboard that I remember from the Dark Lord's memory. However, unlike the young Tom Riddle, I cannot pry up the board so easily. I mutter a revealing spell under my breath, and the Dark Lord's complicated network of wards shimmers before me. I curse the Dark Lord's paranoia—although, actually, in this case it is quite justified—and get to work.

There are two layers of wards around the floorboard (I can't help but laugh at the sight of the Dark Lord warding a floorboard. The absurdity of the image is beyond belief). The one on the outside is based on runes; the second, inner layer is more standard, and I think that I could perhaps break through the first layer today. Of course, I am not so optimistic as to think that I will get the Horcrux soon. Knowing the Dark Lord, he probably put spells on the goblet itself to trap any thief.

I write down all the runes that appear before my eyes, and I roll my eyes in derision as I see the runes the Dark Lord chose: those for invincibility, protection, victory, strength… in Old English, Arabic, and Egyptian, all together. Almost expected, I think, and I frown as I cock my head to one side. I did get good marks in Ancient Runes, but it has been a long while since I have really thought about it (my time being occupied by Potions and spying). But I'm not about to stop and give up or anything, not now when I'm right next to it. Besides the Old English rune for protection, I began to write out as much information as I can remember.

I can almost imagine the dark soul magic pulsing out from the Hufflepuff goblet, hidden under a floorboard in the back room of Borgin and Burkes, at Knockturn Alley.

I watch as the tawny owl flies away. It carries a heavy package wrapped in brown paper in its talons, and strains under the weight. I had already put several Lightening Charms on it, but evidently Ravenclaw's yew bow is still heavy, even when magic counteracts its weight.

That is the last Horcrux, besides Nagini (after all, it's hardly like I can kill her under the Dark Lord's nose, if indeed he can be said to have one). I found the secret to it hidden deep inside the Dark Lord's mind, and the Horcrux itself in the dark depths of the Forbidden Forest. I had to be very careful about that part—ever since Albus's death, the wards at Hogwarts have been reinforced, and won't allow anyone with the Dark Mark in.

The bow was concealed within the trunk of a yew tree (I am thinking: wand symbolism much? Yew is the wood of death, which the Dark Lord is so very diligent in trying to escape…). The process of getting it out was easy; destroying the protections around it is not, and, like the Hufflepuff goblet, I have decided to simply send it to Potter and let him deal with it. Call me selfish, but I don't relish having the Horcrux suddenly blow up in my face, and subsequently have to reason my way out of it to the Dark Lord.

The other three Horcruxes are gone. Albus destroyed the ring, Potter destroyed the diary, and it was recently found by the Order that Regulus Black went after the locket and destroyed it with a well-said Avada Kedavra. Thus accounting for the fake one which Potter and Albus retrieved before Albus's death.

Sirius Black always said his brother was a weakling. I knew him better, although he was three years below me. He'd probably found out the Dark Lord's secret through some indiscreet actions by Bellatrix Black (can't you imagine her boasting of giving her Lord a hiding place for a Horcrux?) and was probably well revolted that she had desecrated a ancient font of self-knowledge, for that is what the font in the cave used to be. I remember Regulus Black: a sulky, snappish Slytherin who listened to everyone and knew everything. He didn't care much for the issue of blood purity either way—he was one of those apathetic people, who just want to have a life—and only joined the Death Eaters because his family wanted him to. At the Death Eater meetings, he often stood near the back and looked bored. I suppose that he didn't really want to do any of the attacks and rather despised the Dark Lord for tearing apart his family. Perhaps that was what drove him to destroy one of the Dark Lord's Horcruxes—the wonderful chance of laughing in the Dark Lord's face, and showing him that he had figured out his secret.

I spend a while outside checking the wards and looking at the haunting beauty of the moor, before I walk back into the house. It is early in the year now, a fresh March morning, and the snow from the previous winter is receding, leaving behind small pools of cold water and furrowed dirt. I hum the refrain of the "Ballad of Tam Lin," my mother's favourite song, and pour a cup of hot chocolate for myself out of a thermos.

I find myself having to purchase most of my things from Muggle shops, as Albus says it is still too risky to venture out into the wizarding world. True, but I've changed as well. People remember me as being sneering and sarcastic, with greasy hair and pale skin. My months at Twelfth Night have, I admit, done rather well for me. Besides Death Eater meetings and the occasional attack, I spend my time at Twelfth Night, with only Albus for company. And with Albus, one can't help but pick up some of his quirkiness (unfortunately for me). Because of limited access to potions ingredients, I've been forced to spend my time outside growing the plants myself. My skin's darker—what people would call a medium tan. And my hair's cut short to my chin, somewhat windswept, and no longer oily. That came from years of stirring potions in caldrons, and the fumes. I rather miss the days at Hogwarts. But my mission is what Albus calls "valiant"—I half wonder if that is a true compliment, or a gentle poke at my distaste for anything Gryffindor—and if all goes well, Hogwarts will stand, and the Dark Lord will fall.

I tell myself that I'm being melodramatic. That doesn't bode well for my Slytherin roots, I snap at myself. But there is none of the usual sting. I've found that when you're wanted for murder, Hogwarts Houses don't matter much anymore. When you might die any moment… well. I've never been one for morbidness (Albus begs to differ, but Albus isn't always right. He retorts by pointing out that I'm not always right, either.).

I am staring into my cup of hot chocolate, hands wrapped around the mug for warmth, but my spy instincts are good, and I don't betray the slightest flinch when Albus startles me by saying, "Severus, the Order's holding a meeting."

I turn around, raising an eyebrow. Albus picks up on the subtlety, and he smiles from his portrait. Sometimes, it is easy to forget that he is dead, and to believe that Albus is really speaking to me. "Oh? And what of it? I believe you were napping."

"Important information," says Albus. "They've destroyed the Horcrux in Hufflepuff's goblet."

I nod. "Good," I say. "They've got another one coming their way at this very moment."

Albus laughs a jovial laugh. "You're alarmingly efficient, Severus. I gave you the task of finding the Horcruxes, and you do so in less than a year. You're better at this than I am."

I shrug nonchalantly. "Only fulfilling my duty. Nagini's the only one left. I'll find some way to get rid of her."

Albus says, "Quite. Do you think Voldemort"—I frown—"knows about the destruction of the Horcruxes?"

"I hope to Merlin not," I say forcefully, "and I don't think so either. He actually seems quite smug about everything right now. But he still keeps Nagini close to him. I haven't had a chance to poison her, because she feeds randomly on whatever she catches, and it's not like I can sprinkle a potion on every single living thing near the Riddle house. The only good way I have of destroying Nagini is by the Killing Curse or something like that. Except the Dark Lord will pick up on that immediately and go check the rest of his Horcruxes. He'll find they're gone and Crucio the lot of us, then he'll go and create more." I sigh in exasperation and sip at my frothy drink. "I suppose the only time I could kill Nagini is at the final standoff, when Potter and the Dark Lord are facing off against each other—right before that."

"Hmm," Albus says intelligently. I feel very vexed at first—well, he's certainly helping! Then I look up at his portrait. He isn't in his frame. I realise that he must still be listening intently to the Order meeting, and I take the opportunity to polish off my drink.

There is a comfortable silence for a few minutes, and then Albus comes back into the frame, humming "Habanera" from Georges Bizet's opera Carmen under his breath. I fix him with a look that obviously says explain. He seats himself behind his "Headmaster's desk" in the picture and beams at me.

"They've been working on figuring out all the wards around the Riddle house," he announces cheerfully. "When they're done, they say they're going to attack. Isn't that wonderful, Severus?"

"Oh yes, I'll bet it's bloody wonderful," I growl back. "It would be rather hard to get through wards erected by the Dark Lord, you know."

"Oh, Severus, don't be such a killjoy! That's the type of attitude that never accomplishes anything. You were saying that about the Horcruxes last year." Albus twinkles—the damn man twinkles—down at me.

I think there is a faint throbbing at my temples, the sign of a mild headache. Great. That really doesn't bode well for my temper.

I take another tactic. "Well," I say, raising an eyebrow, "I could be there, and they'd all cut me down. Although I think Mad-Eye Moody would rather torture me first. And laugh insanely while doing it," I add coolly, as a supposed afterthought.

Albus frowns, but says nothing. I cannot tell if it is out of being concerned for my well-being, or disturbed at how I have effectively compared Alastor "Mad-Eye" Moody to Bellatrix Lestrange. If it is the latter, I patently say it is so. Both are ugly, out of their mind, incredibly good at yelling… I'll take care of the missing eye with Bellatrix in time.

But I don't say anything about that. I go on: "Do you know when?"

"No."

"How very helpful, Albus."

An expression of amusement steals over Albus's face. "I know," he says, his face creasing into a smile. "But…" The smile fades. "They feel somewhat lost," he says quietly, looking down at his hands. I notice they are both still intact, wrinkled and ancient with age. His right hand isn't blackened, like it was for the better part of a year before his death. Albus steeples his fingertips together and says, "As much as I disliked it, I was… a figurehead of sorts for the Order. Now that I am dead…" He spreads his hands out helplessly. "The hunt for the Horcruxes is brightening their prospects, however," he adds. "The Horcruxes are found to be real, signed by a mysterious person called the 'Phoenix.' I've had to tell them he's an Unspeakable friend of mine who agreed to help the Order." He raises a white eyebrow at me, and I catch the enjoyment in his gesture. "Now, Severus, pray tell, when is your next burning day? Phoenixes are so often grouchy afterwards, and I would like to know when to be careful of your bad temper."

"In approximately one and a half minutes," I intone in an ominous voice, and I put on my patented full-on glower, aimed squarely at Albus's portrait.

Albus laughs.

Draco is crying. I grip his shoulder hard and steer him away from his aunt Bellatrix, who looks somewhat miffed at having the lesson cut short.

"I'm sorry about your father, Draco," I say. Actually, I am not at all sorry about the demise of Lucius Malfoy, but I keep my voice calm and collected. Draco passes a hand over his grey eyes. There are dark circles under his eyes; his pointed face sags under the pressure, and I wonder how much he has slept over the past few days. And I have a feeling that he will not sleep at all tonight. I don't blame him.

"It's—it's all right," he says, blinking back tears which threaten to fall. "How—what happened?"

"Aurors," I say succinctly. I don't bother to explain that it was I that gave away his position. Lucius Malfoy is now dead, through an Auror's bone-breaking curse. I have no sympathy for him—he was a sadistic man. His son, however, has never been that way…

I'm beginning to wonder about a mercy killing for Draco. Narcissa died some time ago. Certainly, he can't go much longer under the emotional strain of the Unforgivables. Bellatrix Lestrange, who absolutely delights in dealing torture, doesn't just teach him to cast them, she also does it for him, on him when he fails. It's a wonder that he can stand, but the Dark Lord has said nothing as of yet.

And I am being quite serious about the mercy killing. I am not one who jokes easily. I killed my only true friend and mentor, after all. The fact that he asked me to does not mitigate the action, which I know all too well.

I steer him outside. Riddle House, in Little Hangleton, is surrounded by anti-Muggle and invisibility wards, and is Unplottable. It has also recently been placed under the Fidelius Charm (thus derailing the Order's attempts to attack it), and it doesn't take a Hufflepuff's mind to figure out who the Secret Keeper is.

No, it's not Pettigrew. As if!

The scenery outside is properly dreary, quite suited to the occasion. It is April, and I think of the old Muggle saying my father used to mutter, his voice thick with drunken slurring, "April showers…bring May flowers, eh, Eileen?"

April showers indeed. It's no shower that's happening right now, it's a huge thunderstorm. The rain is coming down with a vicious intensity, tearing savagely at anything that is out in the open. Pitter-patter, pitter-patter. It drums on the root in a random rhythm, attacking and receding. I look at the rain, and think that it really does reflect the wizarding world: under attack by the thunderstorm of the Dark Lord. We Death Eaters are merely the lightning bolts, and I am more lenient than most. Draco is simply a raindrop in the massive, bawling flood of anti-Muggle prejudice, swept along on a path which his arrogant father marked out long ago.

"It was a raid," I say. "They must have managed to find out his location—I don't know how"—that is a lie, but I have lied so many times that it is just one of many—"and they ambushed him. He didn't have a chance. The first curse they used was a bone-breaking curse. It hit him in the neck."

A savage entity, war is. Ruthless. Give no quarter to the enemy. Once, when I opened a Muggle book of my father's, it mentioned what they called prisoners of war, or POWs, and told what happened to them. They endured hard work and bad conditions in sickening prisons of filth. In the wizarding world, however, there are only two outcomes: torture for information, and death.

I inwardly shiver, and think of Potter's half-crazed, blazing emerald green eyes in the flickering firelight of Hagrid's burning cabin: "Kill me like you killed him, you coward—"

I'm no coward, Potter.

"So, Father's dead," says Draco. His voice is small; timid; broken, above all, as broken as I ever heard from a Malfoy. I turn to look at him, without a change in my blank expression; his ashen face blends perfectly with the ashen wall behind him, the ashen surroundings. "Who killed him?"

"I don't know," I say.

Draco looks down at the ground. It is a muddy mess, rain mingling with dirt mingling with sweat mingling with tears. I think of the term prejudiced purebloods use: "Mudbloods." Is this what they meant? Mud upon our souls? If that is true, then we really are all Mudbloods, as impure and tainted as the ones on the other side.

"So even you don't know who killed him."

"No."

The blond boy next to me tears his eyes away from the ground and closes them in silent grief. In front of his unseeing grey eyes, the rain falls in rippling crystalline sheets, a twisted sort of accompanying dance to the waltz of death that he—and I—are forever engaged in.

The Dark Mark burns fiercely black, burning like sulphuric acid eating into my skin and soul, shooting pain throughout my body.

I wince, swear, and clutch at my left forearm. It is, by now, a common occurrence, but it doesn't have to mean that I like it. But then the Dark Lord has never put much stock on his followers' feelings. A very big mistake, in my view.

Albus's worried blue eyes look at me. "Severus, he's called?"

I clench my teeth and nod tightly. "Yes. I'll see you later."

I grab my wand from where it had been lying, on the table, and rush out of the house, flinging the door without bothering to close it. I run down the dirt path to the world outside the wards without paying attention to Nature's May beauty, and as I pass through the wards with that distinct magical snap, I run my fingers along the length of my wand (eleven inches, juniper, dragon heartstring) and Disapparate.

And the Devonshire surroundings disappear around me. Abruptly, I am standing in a dim, dank room. It is bare, with no furnishing or decorations in the room—

A flurry of cloaked figures suddenly appear. Jugson comes into sight next me, trodding in an ungainly fashion on my foot. I scowl his way. The novices, the newly-initiated, the new generation of deluded terrorizers, are gathered on one side, faces sickeningly fanatical in their expressions of excitement and keenness. I turn to see Walden Macnair, fixing the white Death Eater mask onto his face. He sees me looking at him and grins insanely (The grin, of course, adds a great deal to rumours of his sociopathic tendencies. Not that I've ever needed any proof in the first place—not when after my first mission, his accolade to me was a mutilated cat with its two eyes carved out and the Dark Mark grotesquely etched into its forehead. Needless to say, I disposed of it promptly once out of his line of vision.).

Warning sign: Walden Macnair is happy.

That does not bode well for the other side.

Following the others, I hurry out of the room—it is the only room in the Riddle House without anti-Apparition wards at the moment, and as I turn my head to look back, I see a blond boy swiftly setting the wards back around the room. It is Draco, and he turns on his heel and chases after me. I slow down, and wait.

"Professor!" His voice is tired, breathless. I nearly smile at him calling me "Professor." That has not been my title for nearly a year.

His Death Eater robes flap hard at his heels as he catches up to me and slows down. He gives me a small smile, and I nod back in acknowledgement, which he knows is a privilege. Among the others, I have a bit of an icy, sardonic reputation, and he is well aware that it's rather an honour that Severus Snape, the Dark Lord's favoured one ever since Albus Dumbledore's death, deigns to be on personal speaking terms with him.

He pushes back a lock of pale blond hair that has fallen over his eyes with a certain amount of exasperation, and looks at me. I am pleasantly surprised to see a spark of genuine happiness in his eyes. He has been through quite a lot.

"Draco." My voice is calm and without emotion. "What is it?"

"Do you know what's going on?" he asks, his face naively puzzled. "The Dark Lord simply told me to get everyone here, I don't know what's happening—"

I suppress an amused smile. "Draco, I've only just got here."

Draco looks shamefaced. "Sorry, Professor."

"I'm not a professor anymore, either," I remind him. Perhaps that was the wrong thing to say though, because his cheeks are tinged with the faint pink shade of embarrassment.

"I know," he mutters. "But, well, it is hard to stop doing, and I—I hate thinking that it was my fault that you lost your cover at Hogwarts—"

I shake my head. "Don't mind that."

"I can't help it!" Draco says, a little indignantly. "I—it's just that when I was at Hogwarts, I sort of liked it better than—" The word "here" is unspoken, left dangling at the end of his sentence. Then an expression of utter horror crosses over his face, although he manages to conceal it quickly. He has spoken blasphemy against the Dark Lord, and both he and I know it. The penalty can be the blinding green light of the Killing Curse.

I go on as though nothing has happened.

We trade small talk between ourselves about how our lives have been—not too bad, I admit to him, although I do not explain how that is, and he admits to me that it is exciting to run errands for the Dark Lord.

I do not believe that for a moment. I see it in his eyes, in his face. But I say nothing, and nod in acquiescence.

We arrive at the meeting room, where all the Death Eaters gather. As the majority of the Death Eaters stay towards the back, I boldly step forward, as does Bellatrix Lestrange, and Walden Macnair, and Antonin Dolohov (Augustus Rookwood would've, but he was killed in a raid a week ago), and Lawrence Nott.

"Death Eaters!" The Dark Lord sweeps into the room, voice loud and charismatic. Underneath my mask, I frown. He is always this way when he receives good news, and that does not reassure me—rather, it increases my foreboding. His red eyes glint with malicious pleasure, and he raises a pale, slender hand to his black hair to smooth it back.

We all murmur, "My Lord, it is good to see you," and we all bow. I suppress my disgust, and do what I have done for so long.

As we all straighten, the Dark Lord proceeds to deliver a long, convoluted speech on how we should all be proud in our role to save the wizarding world from Mudbloods and blood traitors.

I am getting more worried. The Dark Lord always does this before a major attack. I do not make any prominent moves, but I press my left hand against my robes and feel the reassuring shape of the Portkey (As a matter of fact, I have two Portkeys with me too. One is keyed to Twelfth Night, another will adapt to whatever location to which I key it, depending on the situation.).

The Dark Lord has finished with his long, "blood purity" speech. He comes to a dramatic pause and fixes his blood red gaze upon the gathered Death Eaters.

We are all silent, waiting in anticipation—for me, apprehension—for what will come next.

"And now," says the Dark Lord in a deadly quiet voice, "we will strike the last blow! Upon Hogwarts!"

My mouth suddenly goes dry. I realise that my heart is pounding fiercely.

The Dark Lord has turned toward me. For an infinitesimal second, my heart stops—and then it starts up again, beating warily.

"Severus," he says almost warmly—a good sign for my longevity, then, I think—"the others will go first, to dismantle the Hogwarts wards. I have already weakened them to the point where they will fall easily. This is where you come in, Severus."

I feel a shiver run up my spine. Suddenly, the room seems very, very cold.

"You need to go fetch some potions," the Dark Lord said rather dismissively. "Let me see, I believe at least several vials of acids and such, the type that will eat away at flesh."

I dare not say anything else than the ubiquitous, "Yes, my Lord." I incline my head respectfully and think to myself, flesh-eating acid. Yes, I'm beginning to think that the Dark Lord does not intend this to be a raid, as was the case last year—no, this is going to be a full-out attack, the purpose of which is to take over Hogwarts. Most definitely a demoralising blow. The Order would be devastated.

The Dark Lord turns to Draco. "Lower the anti-Apparition fields," he orders. "Severus, meet us there."

"My Lord." The room disappears around me and now I am next to the stunted tree, phoenix pendant shining brightly in the afternoon sunlight. I glare at the sky as I rush back towards Twelfth Night. It seems so very inappropriate that it should be radiating so warmly and brightly, not on such a fateful day. I bang open the door and run into the kitchen. Albus looks up, alarmed. "Severus!"

"Attack on Hogwarts," I blurt out, not bothering with appearances. "Now."

Albus understands. He nods quickly and vanishes from his portrait, to report to Minerva the danger that approaches Hogwarts, making up a series of elaborate lies to explain how he knows this. But I waste no further time on thinking of Albus. I am rummaging through the potions in my laboratory, picking out the ones the Dark Lord requested. I wonder how many lives I may ruin today, and try to wrench my mind away from that. It's easy for me—I've done it for nearly two decades. Add up the numbers—I've been a spy for a long time.

After I fetch the required potions, I Apparate, not directly outside Hogwarts, but back to the Riddle House. There is one more task that I must do. I have a strange, instinctive feeling that something will happen today, and my instincts have always been right.

Because no-one was left behind to raise the anti-Apparition shields, the Riddle House is currently rather vulnerable. I Apparate directly into the meeting room and am greeted with a startled hiss from Nagini, the Dark Lord's familiar. I bow elegantly to her, showing my all so very fake respect. She retreats, looking somewhat more mollified.

Worse luck for her and the Dark Lord. An smirk crosses my face, and I point my wand at her, summoning up all the hatred and disgust for the Dark Lord that I have kept suppressed for so long. "Avada Kedavra!"

The jet of green light flies like a benediction towards Nagini. Nagini rears up, hissing, but it is too late for her to escape death. The Killing Curse strikes her in the head and she flies violently upward; I must have put a lot of force behind the curse. Her long, lithe serpentine body flails lifelessly in the air, then limply and ignominiously falls to the ground.

The Dark Lord's last Horcrux is gone. Now there is only himself left. Potter will—must—take care of him.

I smile grimly, and raise my wand.

I am not far from the battle now. I slink in the shadow of the trees of the Forbidden Forest, and I see that the Death Eaters are having trouble with dismantling the wards.

I have not yet revealed my presence to them. They take no notice of their surroundings, concentrating solely on the wards.

That is their first mistake. I see the doors of Hogwarts pushed open, and Harry Potter—wildly messy black hair, tall lean body, shocking green eyes—runs out from the Great Hall. His wand is held out, and behind him follow the other students: Granger, Weasley, Weasley, Longbottom, Lovegood, Finnegan, Thomas, Boot…

Their faces are all determined, and although I see flickers of fear on their faces, none of them turn back.

The werewolf Lupin is right behind them, with the Metamorphmagus Tonks and Shacklebolt and Moody. The professors are coming out now: Minerva, black hair now turning grey still pulled back severely into her trademark tight bun, flicks her wand and the wards strengthen, as ordered by the Headmistress of Hogwarts. Protection charms and extra wards fly off Filius's tongue effortlessly.

And Rubeus Hagrid does not bother with magic. He picks up his enormous hunting crossbow and fits a fletched arrow to the notch. He lets fly. His aim is true, and Amycus falls to the ground, an arrow between his shoulders.

Even in such a moment, I suddenly realise a bit of humour. Amycus would have been shamed at dying in a very Muggle way.

Only now are the others realising that they are in great trouble. Antonin Dolohov jumps to his feet and pulls his wand on the advancing Hogwarts defenders, his face twisted with the insane rage of Azkaban. He opens his mouth to roar a curse, but I have a few tricks I have kept hidden myself. I cannot help but smile. As a Reductor Curse flies towards an unsuspecting Susan Bones, I raise my wand and I pour all my magic into my next words: "Bouclier!"

A golden shield shimmers and flickers in the light. The Reductor Curse rebounds off the shield and ricochets back toward the Death Eaters. It strikes Alecto in the chest. The others—Death Eaters and students, professors, and Order members—have all jumped back at the appearance of the shield. I feel an inordinate smirk creep over my face. Albus had always had a flair for the dramatic, and it was very practical as well. While the Death Eaters' spells would be reflected, the opposing side's spells would go straight through to hit the poor sods. What a one-sided battle, I think. I try hard not to smirk again.

Now another barrage of curses is flying at the surprised, huddled Death Eaters. There are looks of shock over their faces as the Stunners strike them one by one. Their antagonists don't dare go outside the unknown shield. I count the black cloaked, white masked figures, stricken unconscious by red light. There are six of them altogether, not including the two that are dead. I frown. There should be more.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see movement. I slowly, warily turn my head to the right. There is another, larger group of Death Eaters attacking on the far right, and the fighters swing that way. So there are more.

I don't bother with firing off a curse or hex that could give away my position. Instead, I skirt the battle that has broken out, and look for the Dark Lord. The others can take care of his followers, but the Dark Lord has always been the chief threat.

And now I see him. Him and his nemesis, Potter. They stand, motionless, outside of the rest of the fighting, looking with cold eyes at each other. The Dark Lord's eyes glitter maliciously with the red of spilled blood; Potter's eyes smoulder with flashing emerald fire. I am, once again, struck by a curious irony: that the Dark Lord, a Slytherin, should have red Gryffindor eyes, while Potter, a Gryffindor, has the green of Slytherin.

But then again, perhaps it is appropriate, considering the situation. They both have a part of each other, I think, for their lives—their very souls and destinies, and maybe deaths—are bound and entwined together so tightly that it must take the destruction of one of them to break the connection.

I come closer to the two, still hidden among the trees and unseen. The Dark Lord is taunting Potter, who is gripping his wand (holly and phoenix feather) so tightly that his knuckles, tanned brown by seven years of Seeking in Quidditch games, have turned stark white with anger. "I have waited so long for this moment," the Dark Lord purrs in satisfaction (I feel a thrill of smug satisfaction at the fact that the Dark Lord shouldn't be satisfied anyway, not if he knew that his last Horcrux has just ceased to exist at a house in a little town called Little Hangleton). "Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived. Because of a mother's love." His hissing voice rises with unspoken disdain upon the last word, emphasized scornfully. Potter is silent, but he continues to glare at the Dark Lord.

I hope he doesn't suddenly go berserk. Gryffindors have a reputation for bad tempers.

As a matter of fact, his mother, Lily Evans, had quite a temper herself—as was shown throughout seven years at Hogwarts, concentrated upon a certain idiot by the name of James Potter. Temper and love. Enough, in fact, to stop the Dark Lord in his tracks, I think.

Potter brings up his wand. His voice is quiet, yet it echoes. "I'm going to kill you, Tom."

The jibe at the Dark Lord's Muggle origins is not taken well, for the Dark Lord sneers, "Oh, really? Shouldn't you rather be bowing down to your superior? Your mother did, in the end, as did your father. I destroyed them, as I have done for so many others, and as I will do for you, Potter. But I—" His voice is imperious, arrogant—the voice that I have heard constantly for the past year, and which does not seem inclined to change any time soon—"I am forever immortal."

"Not so immortal as you think," Potter retorts hotly, a scowl full blown on his thin face, and without further words shoots off an "Expelliarmus!"

I nearly groan aloud. If Potter is destined to save us all from the Dark Lord, and still duels like that, I might as well take out life insurance. Merlin knows you don't start a duel by trying to disarm; it should be small, harmless spells, to gauge your opponent. Or otherwise an unexpected explosive, deadly curse. But Expelliarmus! On the Dark Lord, of all people...

But then Potter has never bothered to gauge his opponents. He rushes into battle with a reckless tomfoolery that is sometimes absolutely ridiculous. It is really rather surprising, sometimes, that he has managed to survive for so long. But perhaps it is precisely his unpredictability that is such an asset. Certainly, most wizards would be hard put to fight with the Dark Lord—they would probably faint dead away with terror. Potter, on the other hand…

The Dark Lord steps aside with mocking ease. "Is that all you can do, Potter? So you want to duel and die?"

"I'll settle for the duelling part," Potter says, and I suppress my laughter at the absurdity of it all. But the curses are flying now, and Potter ducks a Killing Curse. It strikes a nearby tree and shatters the bark, sending wood chips flying wildly in all directions.

I think of mortality, and how it comes to everyone in the end. There are no exceptions—and there will never be any, I think coldly, looking at the Dark Lord. I dare not come into the fight, for Potter will try to kill me any way he can, and the Dark Lord will make me fight him—Potter would become a vengeful dervish of fury to me, for the Order has sworn to slay me in revenge for Albus's death. That is not something I care to know, although I do know. As for what I came here to do—it's not yet to die.

Only to help. And aid. That is my duty, as a spy.

I back away into the trees silently and return to the main battle. Most of the Death Eaters are already down, but Bellatrix Lestrange is not, and she casts the Cruciatus Curse on Granger, who screams in agony, her face twisted with pain. Weasley runs over, furious, face flaming with rage.

"Stupe—"

—but Bellatrix stops him with Avada Kedavra—he is too close to her to duck out of the way, away from the green light—and turns to Draco, who hovers nearby, his face blank. Granger screams and sobs and points her wand at Bellatrix, a trace of near madness in her eyes, but Bellatrix says, "Petrificus Totalus," and Granger, her face still twisted with anguish and pain, clatters to the ground, immobile.

"Draco," she says in a sickeningly sweet voice, "remember what I've said in the lessons. Kill her." Her heavily hooded dark eyes gleam with malicious satisfaction, her emaciated face madly triumphant.

Draco blinks once, twice, as though he is in a dream. "What?" he asks, sounding rather dazed.

"Kill her!" Bellatrix screeches, pointing a finger at Granger, who glares up at the dark-haired lunatic and the frozen blond boy with a sort of pathetic courage, as if to say, Kill me then. I'll die with honour.

Draco blinks again. He raises his wand, still looking like he is frozen in time and space, and is now simply a mindless automaton.

The point of his wand stops moving. Granger does not close her eyes. There will be the rushing sound of the green light of eternal death, and then nothing—

Draco looks at Bellatrix and says, "No."

Bellatrix stares at her nephew, then turns on Draco with a fury worthy of the Erinyes—except that the Erinyes were vengeful for a reason, and Bellatrix Lestrange—well, she has no reason at all in her mind. "What?" she shrieks incoherently. "You dare disregard my orders?"

Draco meets her eyes calmly, and I wonder with growing apprehension if he has suddenly decided to turn Gryffindor and accept the ubiquitous House recklessness. "Yes." He stands there, with all the cold arrogance and disdain of the Malfoys, only now it is directed at his own family, his aunt Bellatrix. His lip curls with anger. "I have disobeyed your orders."

Bellatrix's gaze turns cold. "Avada Kedavra." She says it coolly, without emotion, as though Draco has ceased to be a person, and is merely a thing, a disgusting cockroach that should be exterminated. (Perhaps… she never thought of him as a person in the first place, just as a "Malfoy"…)

Draco does not even try to escape the green light. He crumples to the ground. I can see the still open grey eyes in his face, the smooth expression. Had he wanted to die?—to join his family? After all, there was no longer anything that he could live for: no parents, no friends, no lover, no joy… his last year has been only Pain, even if he did not fully know that himself.

There is a rare light in his face, that of knowing—and I know, now, that Draco had finally grown up, in the minutes before his death. Grown up to choose his own path. And as I will choose mine.

I raise my own wand. "Avada Kedavra!" I snap, and Bellatrix never sees it coming. One moment she is glaring with undiluted hatred and disgust at Granger; the next, she is dead, the expression of revulsion forever frozen on her face.

The Petrifying Spell ends with Bellatrix's death. Granger gets unsteadily to her feet, and does not see me. Her brown eyes are fixed on Weasley's prone body, and then she rushes over to her fallen friend and kneels down, leaning over him and weeping tears of rage and sorrow. Her keening cry pierces me like a knife.

So I glance away from her, unable to look. I look at Draco instead—Draco on the ground, Draco's act of defiance, and sacrifice, and redemption. I wonder where he has gone, in the land of the dead.

I have seen death so many times, but that does not make it any worse.

I turn my head slightly to indicate where the Dark Lord and Potter are duelling—

Except they are not there.

At this distance, I discreetly cast a revealing spell. It comes up with the Portus spell, keyed to the Veil room in the Department of Mysteries. Of course, I realise, the Dark Lord would want to end it all in the place where the second half of the war against him began with the crashes of many prophecy orbs and the death of Sirius Black (not the second war, mind, because the war never truly ended). So I quietly key my extra Portkey to the exact location, and as the keying spell stabilises, the Portkey activates and I disappear.

My landing place is, quietly enough, behind a row of metal jars. I raise an eyebrow as my eyes pass over the labels: "Nundu teeth—1684," "Erumpent liver—1394," and decide that it doesn't really matter. I cast a Disillusionment Charm on myself and step out from behind the metal jar row. My Portkey seems to have been a little off, because I'm in one of the more… mundane parts of the Department of Mysteries. That is no problem. I recalibrate the Portkey, and appear in the Veil room.

As a Killing Curse passes over my head, I thank Merlin for my good reflexes.

I quickly move out of the way and bless my quick thinking in using a Disillusionment Charm. The Dark Lord and Potter are fighting to the death, curses and hexes crisscrossing the heavy air in an obscenely beautiful display of coloured lights. This could determine our fates, yet I cannot interfere. I only stand there, watching, my lips pressed tightly together in trepidation as Potter narrowly escapes the wrath of another of the Dark Lord's Killing Curses. The Dark Lord's face is wide and pale, leering with a mocking intensity at Potter. He says, "You can never escape the Dark Lord, Potter!"

I wonder why the Dark Lord has referred to himself in the third person (maybe he is going insane…), but Potter says nothing. His face is taut and grim; the line of his jaw makes me think of his purpose now—to kill. His green eyes glitter coldly in the pale artificial light, and the wedges of torchlight cast strange shadows across his young face, emphasising the sharp planes of his cheekbones and the thin, straight line of his mouth, not in a grimace, but a frown of concentration. It is the face of a ruthless asceticism, of a single, focused intent.

He has grown old before his time. As had Black and Weasley. As have Lupin and Granger. And me. Broken, lost remnants of two generations—those who could have been glorious, in another era; but it did not happen. And so we must carry on the fight, and win.

The duel is a breathtaking, nerve-wracking experience. It is a whirring, twirling, haunting dance of death. They always jump out of each other's reach, twisting from spells and countering with curses, in an intricate manner. The fighting seems to create a great sphere, composed of many coloured lights, and I suddenly recall the brother wands of the Dark Lord and Potter. Potter now is using another wand—that is obvious—but an involuntary shiver runs up my spine at thinking of the golden sphere.

The Dark Lord fires off a Cruciatus Curse, which Potter dodges easily. He falls to the ground and rolls out of harm's way as lightning bolts, crackling with raw electricity, unrestricted, spill out in jagged segments, striking the floor every time—Potter is amazingly fast—and causing large, gaping cracks in the room's floor. Potter swears violently—something which I find inexplicably amusing—and dives behind a column.

Then he is forced to flee his momentary safe place, as the Dark Lord roars mercilessly, "Detruire!" A inky black light flies toward the column, which crumbles ignominiously into dust and ashes. Potter rises up out of the rubble, his wand pointed at his nemesis. His messy black hair is littered with white brown dust, and one of the lens in his glasses is slightly cracked—What the deuce is he doing with glasses, the idiot? You don't wear glasses in a fight! (After all, what if they break and the glass goes into the eyes? Blinded! Silly, silly of him…)

While the Dark Lord seems untouched by anything, Potter is tiring—rapidly. His breathing is heavy and ragged; his right cheek has a thin cut, and as I watch, invisible, from the sidelines, a thin trickle of blood slides down his face. He wipes away the fluid with a hasty hand.

A Reductor Curse flies from the tip of his wand, and strikes the bare stone wall behind the Dark Lord. The Dark Lord artfully twists out of the way, and with a flick of his wrist—so quick that Potter cannot possibly counter it, in the barest part of a second—ropes come flying out of his wand and wrap themselves securely around Potter. I see the unspoken anger in Potter's eyes—anger that he has allowed himself to be caught. Allowed himself to be rendered helpless. Allowed himself to be unable to help his friends—the people who all sustain his love, and who have all brought him through this war.

The Dark Lord laughs, a high, manic laugh. He approaches Potter and looks down at him. A smirk flits about his mouth, and he takes Potter's wand from his hand and throws it to the side. I see Potter's eyes follow the slender stick of wood as it tumbles through the air, clattering loudly on the stone floor.

Time has halted. It is the climax of the story—the hero bound, the villain standing over him and gloating.

And now… for the deus ex machina. Literally, "the god from the machinery." And although I am no god, and machinery has nothing to do with the situation, I think that, in Potter's view, this would be among the many improbable events that have occurred to him. Dea ex machina, indeed.

I point my wand between the joined sides of a metal crest from my hiding place. Non-verbal spells are so very useful. I don't try to use the Killing Curse. Instead, I concentrate upon a single word, my magic trembling at the tip of my wand.

My lips do not move, but my mind roars, "Reducto!" It is the same mind that ordered myself to shout "Avada Kedavra" a year ago, and now it screams the curse with the same revulsion—the same hatred—the same loathing that I utilised to kill my mentor and my friend. Which I now use, to destroy my oppressor.

In the seconds that follow, I wonder if the Dark Lord has realised what is happening—that a vicious red light is flying mercilessly toward him—that Potter's eyes have gone ever so slightly wide with astonishment—that a curse is coming his way, and that if he does not move in time—

But he doesn't, and the curse hits him full in the back. He is flung forward by its impact, but his body does not hit the ground. Instead, he disintegrates into many particles of grey dust, which are borne by the air, and float harmlessly to the floor.

Potter scrambles to his feet, shocked. He goes for his wand first; stands; points it with unease at the dust. His emerald green eyes dart around the room, trying to seek out the person who cast the curse, and determine: friend, or enemy?

I step back, hidden in the shadows. I have helped Potter—more than his father would have ever done for me, at any rate—and I am beginning to ache in the muscles and bones. Twelfth Night, after all, is only a few seconds away, separated from me by my robes..

My hand goes to my pocket. I am getting somewhat tired…

Potter stumbles; screams. I stop as my fingers brush against the cool stone of the Portkey. I frown in consternation and look back.

And my blood freezes. For Potter has crumpled to the floor, screaming, his hands clutching madly at his scar, which stands out lividly on his forehead—a jagged, searing lightning bolt. When he opens his eye, they are no longer emerald green. Not emerald green—but red, red tint spread thinly upon green.

My heart beats rapidly. Oh Merlin, the Dark Lord's definitely possessed Potter! And now I am roundly tearing myself apart on why I had used a Reductor Curse—oh, but now's not the time for that, damn it! I can't curse Potter, because it won't affect the Dark Lord at all. I am beginning to curse my stupidity.

Potter opens his eyes again. They are green now, but I see the desperate struggle in his mind. The Dark Lord against Potter, as always. He staggers to his feet, weaving unsteadily from side to side, like a drunk who has not only downed several shots of Firewhisky in a row, but was also spun around several times. He whirls around, and screams again. The scream sears the apprehension in the air, the thickness, the tangible fear.

There is a pounding on the door to the Veil room. The Unspeakables must have located the battle. My jaw clenches shut, and, making a split-second decision, I run out from my hiding place—mask still securely in place—and rush over to Potter. "Potter! What's happening?" I snap down at him.

Potter opens his mouth, but out comes the hissing voice of the Dark Lord: "A traitor? Oh, I do not condone treachery, my Death Eater…" He has not yet recognised me. But now the spell passes, and Potter is back. His face seems eerily calm. There is a nagging feeling at the back of my mind—something is going to happen, my mind yammers, he's going to do something—

Potter turns. His eyes fix upon the Veil to the side of the room. He seems to be contemplating it for a long moment, wincing through his pain. Then, suddenly, he lets out an animal yell and runs toward the fluttering cloth.

I swear violently, and now I am after Potter, scrambling to catch him. "Potter!" I scream. "What in Merlin's name are you doing?"

In one last burst of utterly aware, volitional consciousness, Potter replies in a tortured, vengeful voice, "I die, and he dies."

He lifts a foot, and begins to step through the veil.

And perhaps that would have been the end of Harry Potter. He would have died, heroically, taking his life-long enemy down with him in his fall. He would have left behind friends, and people he all practically considered family. He would have gone down in the glorious annals of history, his quest and adventures written in capital letters, sprawling across thickly bound book spines in his sacred lifeblood, running red over pale marbled parchment and spilling into the smallest of paper creases. His story would have been passed down to untold numbers of children, eyes wide in awe at his storybook ending—the noble sacrifice of the hero, for himself and his friends and his world.

It is not so cut and dried for Harry Potter though. Life has never been that way for him.

My reflexes are fast, and I grab his robes so abruptly, and so fiercely, so that even as Potter is halfway through the Veil, I have already jerked him back out, and he tumbles onto the ground.

I am tense as I bend over him. He seems to be unconscious—in a coma, perhaps—but he is still breathing. He is still alive, and the Dark Lord seems to have gone, too. I pass a hand over his brow, and detect signs of breathing. I exhale a breath I did not know I was holding. Albus will be… relieved.

And then the world seems to rush back into focus, and I am suddenly—and uncomfortably aware—that my knees ache from kneeling on the floor, and Potter needs some medical attention. Of course, I can't exactly take him to St Mungo's—

The door to the room buckles and is blown to pieces. I leap to my feet, and promptly cast a Shield Charm as the grey-robed, masked Unspeakables rush in.

I have had enough of a fight. So I crouch, ducking a hex, and activate my Portkey.

The battleground circumstances of the Veil room vanish, and I am suddenly in my small bedroom at Twelfth Night. My heart is still racing. The Unspeakables will take care of him; they'll take him back to Hogwarts.

Instead, I sigh—anger? relief? is the Dark Lord gone? above all things, that means most to me—and I start for the door. I must go speak to Albus about what has happened to Potter. Duelling with and being possessed by the Dark Lord is, after all, not an everyday occurrence.

After all… for in the end, Harry Potter is still a boy, fighting a man's war. And that is something I would not wish upon anyone.

oOo

"Detruire" is mangled Old French for "destroy."

Please, please review. :) Reviews are always appreciated!

Talriga