Disclaimer: All characters belong to JK.

AN: A special thanks to AriadneAWS, who has graciously agreed to join me on another journey. Raven was first published in May 07 and will disregard DH. I left the fandom for a time and so Raven was abandoned, but I've decided to pick it back up again.

"Kill her."

Anyone with a shred of conscience would instinctively recoil at such murderous damnation and turn away from the treacherous orders that were sure to follow; however, no soul dared utter a word. The wind rose up instead, nature's cry of anguish at the truth that evil, too, must live. Murder was an easy subject among those gathered that night, discussed as casually as the weather over tea.

The silence that followed fell heavily, a trace of nervous movement spreading amongst those in the rear.

They were the youngest.

Tonight they would normally be preparing for another school term; however, war had been viciously tearing their youth to shreds for over a year now. They had sworn allegiance under a failing gray moon while one of their own ran wild through the hills, jaws flung open, snapping at the wind.

Dozens gathered from all parts of the wizarding world, some from seemingly upright corners of society, their true loyalties coming to light during a year of terrorist warfare where trust was the scarcest commodity.

In the darkest of times, even loyalty is for sale.

Lord Voldemort stood in the center, one thin hand held up to his chest, fingers spread wide, his eyes closed.

Those in the inner circle shifted, their robes settling heavily over the rampant bramble, twisted roots and fallen branches snapping clean underfoot. A palpable wave passed over them, some hearts beating short with feral anticipation, others with cold fear. Several on one side stepped backward. Another emitted an unearthly low growl.

Voldemort walked on, head tilted in contemplation, his pale, thin lips twisting as he turned sharply and approached a tall figure.

Lifting his head slowly, Voldemort appeared to be admiring the treetops where the raging wind thrashed fragile limbs, whipping them mercilessly into each other.

A bird's nest tumbled out of a high bough, striking several lower branches before falling to the ground.

Voldemort's lips spread further into deranged sneer as he halted.

"Snape."

Severus inclined his head, his eyes cold. "My Lord."

"Kill the Mudblood."

Severus nodded silently, his hand closing into a fist, flexing slowly over the cuff of his robes.

Voldemort bared his teeth at the thought. "You know of whom I speak?"

He did. "Granger."

A faint sniff of derision came from the side, and Voldemort immediately spun in that direction. At a deadly smooth run, he shoved several Death Eaters aside and snatched a fistful of robes, tearing off their wearer's hood.

"Failure! Nothing but a wretch! How dare you!" he raged, shaking a terrified Draco and throwing him to the ground.

Severus calmly watched Narcissa lunge forward, her hood falling at an awkward angle. Her pale and panicked face was a stark contrast to a sea of black, her arms outstretched in what was surely a suicidal attempt to prevent the inevitable. Bella took hold of her sister, her thin nails driving deep into rough robes, angrily tearing for a grip.

"Cissy!" Severus heard Bella hiss, but Severus' attention was torn away by a fierce red light – and Draco's inhuman screams.

As Draco dissolved into a crumpled mass of robes, his pale hair barely visible in the darkness and dirt, Voldemort reached for him again, turned, and snarled over his shoulder, "Snape! Now!"

Without a word, Severus turned on his heel and strode through the crowd, his robes flowing out behind him, brushing against the others as he passed. They fell back, their eyes narrowing in either envy or hatred. Those regarding him from the rear, however – their eyes gave him an inner pause.

They wore a mask of indifference behind which a raging fire of corrupted innocence burned out of control, tearing at their hearts, frantically commanding them to flee, run, never turn back.

He had worn that same mask himself many years ago.

Part of him wished for it again.

It was only a matter of time before Draco received his full punishment, but that knowledge made it no easier to hear his raving screams fade into hollow rasps of inconsolable despair.

Then fail.

A weathered stack of parchment threatened to topple off of the desk, its crooked neighbors leaning at impossible angles. The topmost pages lifted, fluttering softly on a lazy summer breeze while a model airplane swung slowly on a clear wire, its wings painted bright purple.

An irritated-looking owl hooted softly, rocking as it gathered its feet under itself on a perch near the window. It had drifted into a slow nap to be disturbed by a smaller owl sweeping in and landing on the arm of Hermione's chair, dropping the Daily Prophet into her lap.

She didn't need to look at the headline to know.

Tossing the Prophet onto a pile of books, Hermione sighed, gathered her hair, and pulled it to the side. Closing her eyes, she concentrated on the breeze on her neck, her mind connecting the rising sound of leaves outside with the intensity of the wind that would follow.

The year that should have been their seventh at Hogwarts had been long, filled with failed attempts at finding the last Horcrux and the Order's rising frustration reaching a near breaking point. With Harry's destruction of the Hufflepuff cup, the summer had dawned with increasingly ferocious attacks. Even worse, they were seemingly random, the Dark Mark sharing the sky with a brilliant sun, its faint wisp blending softly against afternoon clouds.

The Muggle newspapers, understandably, were frantic, filled with headlines that could offer no comforting vigilance against inexplicable events.

Harry somehow looked so much older; weighted, his posture rigid, resolute if not passionate. After returning for the last time from the Dursleys', he had done nothing more than eat a hurried meal and announce that he would set out for Godric's Hollow that night, much to the great protest of the Order, Molly in particular, who had told him in no uncertain terms he was not to go alone.

If Hermione hadn't received that owl warning of Voldemort's orders to patrol the skies near where they believed the Burrow to be…

That night, she had barely been able to speak after screaming into the stark night sky for them to come back. The memory of Harry turning just as the first spell colored his glasses a watery blood red haunted her still.

In long nights when she lay unblinking in the dark silence, she could still see how the soft, low-hanging cloud cover trapped the chaotic anarchy of red and green that had followed.

Shacklebolt had fallen first, the handle of his broom driven into the ground beside his shocked body, his eyes staring up at a slowly parting storm, roiling in preparation for outrage. A Stunner had grazed Remus as he twisted around, sending him into a wild spiral from which he barely recovered long enough to rake across the treetops and crash into a high branch before falling to the ground. Harry's instinct had taken over at that point, driving him to take evasive action, weaving through the thick forest cover, easily outrunning two Death Eaters and leading them away from the Burrow before losing them near a Muggle town.

Hermione had received many more anonymous tips that summer. Some timely, allowing them to inform the Muggle Prime Minister of certain dangers in advance, others suggesting possible Horcrux locations, and still others resulting in nothing more than growing suspicion. Informants, spies and supposed anonymous help, for good reason, were regarded with deep distrust.

Part of her already knew who it was. The wording of some of the tips suggested someone who knew of the Order's inner workings, pointing obviously to Snape.

But why?

Once McGonagall decided that excluding Hermione, Ron and Harry from Order meetings was useless, they had spent numerous sessions ignoring that question. It would need to be addressed, but the warning look on McGonagall's face whenever the subject migrated too close to that edge roughly shelved the subject.

After all, betrayal cuts close to the heart – sometimes straight through it.

Hermione's thumb slid over the edges of the parchment, stopping just short of slicing through her skin. Another rush of cool air through the window brought the earthen scent of fall, triggering memories of school. Hogwarts had not reopened since Dumbledore's death, but her soul cared nothing for circumstance. Sometimes the most passionate fury is born from life interrupted, and part of her raged at the reality of a single leaf blowing across the grounds without a student nearby to witness it.

"All right, Hermione?"

Arthur Weasley stood in the doorway, the Prophet and several Muggle newspapers tucked under one arm. Each headline was printed in panic-filled large block letters.

"If I could only see a pattern," she said, gesturing to the mass of parchment littering Arthur's desk. Notes with a mixture of attack dates and details were spread across Dark Arts books that determinedly avoided describing Horcruxes.

Her hands settled on the edge of the desk, her nails absently worrying the worn edges.

Arthur set his jaw and rested a hand on the back of the guest chair. "Hermione, there may not be a way to predict what they might do next."

She shook her head wordlessly and turned to look at him just as Remus appeared in the doorway, the lines on his face deepening with grim news.

At Hermione's questioning gaze, Remus stated, "Another."

Holding her head in her hands, staring at the blotter, she asked, "Where?"

Remus looked at Arthur and leaned against the wall. After a weary breath, he replied, "London. Broad daylight."

"The Dark Mark?" Arthur asked.

Remus nodded as he handed Hermione a parchment. "Four Muggles. Dead."

"It's not random," Hermione said in a faded voice, watching the small owl lumber over hills of slick parchment to the discarded Prophet. It picked its delivery up again and flapped its wings angrily before depositing it back into Hermione's hands, following its gesture up with an impatient peck.

"Ow!" Hermione shooed the owl away and frowned when it moved just out of reach, settled, and stared at her intensely.

The larger owl sniffed, turned its back on them and returned to its nap.

"Hermione, the Death Eaters are nothing but random murderers. Their only goal is terrorizing for the pure pleasure of it," Remus argued.

Hermione closed her hand around the newspaper and leaned back in the chair. "Maybe, maybe not. I have to try though. Scrimgeour is certainly worthless."

Sighing, she closed her eyes, her thoughts automatically slowing from years of practice. The dying late-day sun shone through her eyelids, coloring her world rose.

"The Muggles have no defense. While we're obsessed with the locket, they're being systematically murdered."

She opened her eyes, her fingers worrying the twine binding the scroll.

Her questioning gaze challenged Remus to suggest a better option.

Remus quieted and then offered, "I know, Hermione. I'm – sorry."

Hermione nodded tiredly.

"Molly will likely be calling for supper soon," Arthur said, gesturing for Remus to go ahead.

When the door closed behind them, Hermione opened her hand then glanced at the owl. It had positioned itself on top of her latest set of notes, glaring at her, at the Prophet in her hand and then back, as if willing her to look at it.

"Fine. You're certainly insistent," she said tiredly and opened the scroll.

Her breath caught as a smaller piece of parchment fell out.

The owl spread its wings, hopped to the highest stack, and flew out of the window.

Picking up the parchment, Hermione read aloud, her voice growing louder and more frantic with each word. She stood at some point, her eyes riveted on the parchment, walking blind, her hand reaching for the door, throwing it open and clutching the banister as she flew down the stairs.