Disclaimer: Characters belong to a very talented, very rich woman. I am not her.
Author's Notes: Told ya it wouldn't be a year until the next update! I was so utterly pleased to see that people still care about my little tale. Thank you so much for the sweet responses. Enjoy this chapter...for I am the Queen of the Cliffhanger. Or at least the Princess.
Until Such A Time
by Kristen Elizabeth
Emma walked the halls of Hogwarts like one of its ghosts.
She had no idea where she was within the maze of cold, stone corridors and heavy oak doors, but she pressed on, turning corners when she felt like it and ducking into rooms that were already open, as not to run the risk of arousing anyone's suspicions.
Regret blossomed in the center of her chest, growing stronger with every passing minute. She ought to know this place like she knew her own house. She should have gotten to see it for the first time from a tiny boat on the lake. She should have been sorted by the Sorting Hat. She should have been taught how to fly a broom in the courtyard. She should have stressed over her exams, kissed boys, laughed with her girlfriends, mixed potions and read letters from her parents all within these walls.
So many "should haves." Rounding yet another corner, Emma shook her head. What was the use of lamenting what should have been? It wouldn't change anything. If anything was going to change, she'd already set the wheels in motion.
Now she just needed to fix her big mistake.
Emma was so lost in her thoughts that she nearly fell straight down a long flight of very hard-looking steps. She caught herself just in time, and clung to the wall until her heart stopped racing.
"Mum always said this place kept a body on their toes," she whispered to herself. She was about to turn around and continue on her way, but curiosity suddenly got the best of her. Where did the stairs lead? They disappeared a black void, yet she did not feel any apprehension as she started down.
Darkness enveloped her. She was fairly dying to whip out her wand and call up some light, but she just kept going, feeling her way down each step and keeping one hand out in front of herself in case she reached a door or something.
Her fingers touched wood after what seemed like hours, and she fumbled around for a minute until she found the iron handle. To her great surprise, it was not locked. Emma pulled it open, wincing at the squeak of the rusty hinges.
There was a candle lit in the center of the room and with its light she was able to make out floor to ceiling shelves that wound all the way around the circular area, filled with bottles of all shapes and sizes. From the dust, she could tell that none of them had been touched in years. Potion ingredients.
Almost falling down the stairs had proven to be quite useful.
The candle itself was perched upon a writing desk at which a man in black robes sat, scribbling on a piece of parchment. His back was to the door, but he whipped around when she entered. Her entire body froze.
"Who's there?" He searched the darkness with keen eyes, a stark contrast to his unkempt appearance. His hair might have been black once, but now it was shot through with so much grey that there was only a hint of its true color left. Emma wanted to shudder at his drooping wrinkles and hunched back. "Do you know what happens to students who venture down here?"
She said nothing, but held her breath when he got up and shuffled over to the door.
"I can sense you," the man said plainly. "Your damnable cloak can't hide you this time, Potter."
Emma blinked several times.
"Mark my words, I will see you hanging from your toes in detention if you try to steal supplies from my office again," the man continued. "Even your misguided guardian Dumbledore won't be able to save you."
The man was mad. Lost in the past. He had to be. Taking a breath, Emma eased away from the door and slowly started towards the man's desk.
"Tricky, Potter!" The man whipped around, still scanning the room, searching. "You're just the same as your father. Come out from your cloak and face your punishment. Time in the dungeon and fifty points from your House. And you can forget about Quidditch."
Emma reached the desk and picked up the man's quill pen. Dipping it into the ink, she quickly copied a short list that she'd memorized back in the Order's cave and added the words, "Help me."
The man stumbled back to the desk and grabbed up the parchment. "Potter," he whispered again. The glazed look in his tired eyes cleared for a moment, and Emma could almost see him regain his hold on reality. "Yes…I'll help you, Potter. It's the least…" He let out a sad, shaky breath. "The least I can do."
"You know…" Ron shook his head as he moved into the room. His immaculate black robes brushed against the dusty floor with each step. "I didn't truly believe Malfoy when he claimed to have had an encounter with the very late Harry Potter. But here you are. I suppose I owe him that hundred Galleons now."
Harry wanted to get angry, but all he felt was icy grief. "What happened to you?" he quietly asked.
The answer to his question came from an unexpected source. "Power," Molly told him. Her voice trembled, but she went on. "What is it that the Muggles say about absolute power?"
"It corrupts absolutely," Harry filled in. "Is that it, Ron? Were you corrupted?"
Ron apparently had no intention of answering the question. He locked stares with Harry for a moment almost too brief to even be noted. In the space of that connected second, Harry suddenly realized that there was no hope in trying to talk this Ron back into the Ron he knew. He was gone. He'd been gone for a long time.
"It doesn't matter how you came back, although I'll be sure to ask when the pain of the Cruciatus has you willing to tell me anything I want to know. What's important is that we're together again, Harry, old mate." His grin was the most horrific thing Harry had ever seen. "And this time, I might get to kill you myself."
Molly gasped. "Ronald Weasley…" She couldn't go on; she slumped in Harry's arms as though the effort of living had gotten to be too much.
"You can let go of my mother now," Ron said. "I no longer need her."
"I'm sure you don't need anyone, Ron," Harry replied. "Your friends, your family…"
His lip curled up in disgust. "What I've accomplished in my life, I've done without any help from anyone else," he snapped. "I created my power. I created my wealth. I gave myself these things."
"I doubt Voldemort would agree."
Ron ignored this. He'd always been good at ignoring what he didn't want to think about. "You know…I often thought you a fool for turning down everything he offered you."
Harry's eyes narrowed. "I'm glad I died rather than take any of his offers. He killed my parents. He's taken away everything I've loved in my life."
"Not everything." Ron smirked. "There's still your daughter. And your wife."
Harry held his ground, refusing to let on to the chill he suddenly felt. "You'll never find them."
"I don't have to go looking for them, Harry. They've come here to me."
"Leave them alone. They're innocent. They always have been."
Ron tilted his head to one side. "Maybe your brat is. But Hermione…" He shook his head. "You have no idea."
He didn't want to ask, he wanted to write off the remark as a desperate attempt to throw him off guard…but he found himself asking, "About what?"
"Your ever-so faithful wife hasn't been all that faithful to your memory, mate." He shook his head in mock disappointment. "Although for the life of me I can't imagine why she wanted to go to bed with Remus Lupin. He was an old man when we were kids! Maybe it was the whole werewolf thing. Didn't you used to tell me that she liked it rough? You know…on her hands and knees from…"
He was cut off by Harry's hands wrapping around his throat. Even so, he still managed to get out a strangled chuckle.
"Don't ever talk about my wife again," Harry hissed, slamming him against the wall of the dormitory they'd once shared as friends. "You lying traitor!"
Ron's knee collided with his groin and Harry released him, doubling over in pain. Coughing and laughing at the same time, Ron stood over him, triumphant. "Why tell lies, Harry…when the truth is so much more fun?" He pulled out his wand. "Let's make this quick, shall we? I have better places to be. Crucio!"
The ache in his groin was nothing compared to the excruciating pain that coursed through his entire body. Every nerve ending was on fire. He heard screams. Some belonged to Molly Weasley.
The others, he realized, were his.
Hermione heard her husband's screams and felt her blood freeze. Someone grabbed her arm; Remus, she realized a second later.
"It's coming from…" he started.
"The tower," she finished. "Harry…" Hermione pulled away from him and ducked out of the safety of the cloak.
"Hermione!" she heard her one-time lover calling after her. "Wait!"
But she couldn't wait. Harry was hurting. Harry could die. She couldn't let it happen. Not again.
Her feet took he straight to Gryffindor Tower without her brain even having to remember the path there. The portrait was already open; she ran into the common room just in time to hear another scream, a much more feminine cry. It was coming from the boy's side. Hermione took the stairs two at a time, her breast rising and falling, not from the effort, but from sheer fear.
Entering the room was like entering the hell of her worst nightmares. Her beloved Harry lay on the floor, curled up in agony. Ron stood over him, laughing. And Molly Weasley was dumbstruck, unable to do anything but sob.
Her first instinct was to stop him from attacking Harry. With no other plan in her mind, Hermione ran for Ron, attacking him from behind with her fists, her nails, anything to inflict enough pain to distract him and allow Harry to regain the upper hand.
Ron fought the invisible attack almost too well. His arms flailed for a moment before he thought to reach behind him. She felt his fingers twist into her hair, pulling hard enough to make her scalp bleed. Perhaps it was the pain, or the lowering of her own defenses in such close proximity to the epicenter of evil, but when Ron turned around, she knew right away that he could see her.
"There you are, Hermione." He smiled. "Good to see you."
With that, he flung her across the room. She felt her head connect with the wall. She felt herself crumple onto the floor. She felt the warmth of her own blood pooling under her cheek. But after that, she felt nothing.
To Be Continued
Author's Notes: Told ya it wouldn't be a year until the next update! I was so utterly pleased to see that people still care about my little tale. Thank you so much for the sweet responses. Enjoy this chapter...for I am the Queen of the Cliffhanger. Or at least the Princess.
Until Such A Time
by Kristen Elizabeth
Emma walked the halls of Hogwarts like one of its ghosts.
She had no idea where she was within the maze of cold, stone corridors and heavy oak doors, but she pressed on, turning corners when she felt like it and ducking into rooms that were already open, as not to run the risk of arousing anyone's suspicions.
Regret blossomed in the center of her chest, growing stronger with every passing minute. She ought to know this place like she knew her own house. She should have gotten to see it for the first time from a tiny boat on the lake. She should have been sorted by the Sorting Hat. She should have been taught how to fly a broom in the courtyard. She should have stressed over her exams, kissed boys, laughed with her girlfriends, mixed potions and read letters from her parents all within these walls.
So many "should haves." Rounding yet another corner, Emma shook her head. What was the use of lamenting what should have been? It wouldn't change anything. If anything was going to change, she'd already set the wheels in motion.
Now she just needed to fix her big mistake.
Emma was so lost in her thoughts that she nearly fell straight down a long flight of very hard-looking steps. She caught herself just in time, and clung to the wall until her heart stopped racing.
"Mum always said this place kept a body on their toes," she whispered to herself. She was about to turn around and continue on her way, but curiosity suddenly got the best of her. Where did the stairs lead? They disappeared a black void, yet she did not feel any apprehension as she started down.
Darkness enveloped her. She was fairly dying to whip out her wand and call up some light, but she just kept going, feeling her way down each step and keeping one hand out in front of herself in case she reached a door or something.
Her fingers touched wood after what seemed like hours, and she fumbled around for a minute until she found the iron handle. To her great surprise, it was not locked. Emma pulled it open, wincing at the squeak of the rusty hinges.
There was a candle lit in the center of the room and with its light she was able to make out floor to ceiling shelves that wound all the way around the circular area, filled with bottles of all shapes and sizes. From the dust, she could tell that none of them had been touched in years. Potion ingredients.
Almost falling down the stairs had proven to be quite useful.
The candle itself was perched upon a writing desk at which a man in black robes sat, scribbling on a piece of parchment. His back was to the door, but he whipped around when she entered. Her entire body froze.
"Who's there?" He searched the darkness with keen eyes, a stark contrast to his unkempt appearance. His hair might have been black once, but now it was shot through with so much grey that there was only a hint of its true color left. Emma wanted to shudder at his drooping wrinkles and hunched back. "Do you know what happens to students who venture down here?"
She said nothing, but held her breath when he got up and shuffled over to the door.
"I can sense you," the man said plainly. "Your damnable cloak can't hide you this time, Potter."
Emma blinked several times.
"Mark my words, I will see you hanging from your toes in detention if you try to steal supplies from my office again," the man continued. "Even your misguided guardian Dumbledore won't be able to save you."
The man was mad. Lost in the past. He had to be. Taking a breath, Emma eased away from the door and slowly started towards the man's desk.
"Tricky, Potter!" The man whipped around, still scanning the room, searching. "You're just the same as your father. Come out from your cloak and face your punishment. Time in the dungeon and fifty points from your House. And you can forget about Quidditch."
Emma reached the desk and picked up the man's quill pen. Dipping it into the ink, she quickly copied a short list that she'd memorized back in the Order's cave and added the words, "Help me."
The man stumbled back to the desk and grabbed up the parchment. "Potter," he whispered again. The glazed look in his tired eyes cleared for a moment, and Emma could almost see him regain his hold on reality. "Yes…I'll help you, Potter. It's the least…" He let out a sad, shaky breath. "The least I can do."
"You know…" Ron shook his head as he moved into the room. His immaculate black robes brushed against the dusty floor with each step. "I didn't truly believe Malfoy when he claimed to have had an encounter with the very late Harry Potter. But here you are. I suppose I owe him that hundred Galleons now."
Harry wanted to get angry, but all he felt was icy grief. "What happened to you?" he quietly asked.
The answer to his question came from an unexpected source. "Power," Molly told him. Her voice trembled, but she went on. "What is it that the Muggles say about absolute power?"
"It corrupts absolutely," Harry filled in. "Is that it, Ron? Were you corrupted?"
Ron apparently had no intention of answering the question. He locked stares with Harry for a moment almost too brief to even be noted. In the space of that connected second, Harry suddenly realized that there was no hope in trying to talk this Ron back into the Ron he knew. He was gone. He'd been gone for a long time.
"It doesn't matter how you came back, although I'll be sure to ask when the pain of the Cruciatus has you willing to tell me anything I want to know. What's important is that we're together again, Harry, old mate." His grin was the most horrific thing Harry had ever seen. "And this time, I might get to kill you myself."
Molly gasped. "Ronald Weasley…" She couldn't go on; she slumped in Harry's arms as though the effort of living had gotten to be too much.
"You can let go of my mother now," Ron said. "I no longer need her."
"I'm sure you don't need anyone, Ron," Harry replied. "Your friends, your family…"
His lip curled up in disgust. "What I've accomplished in my life, I've done without any help from anyone else," he snapped. "I created my power. I created my wealth. I gave myself these things."
"I doubt Voldemort would agree."
Ron ignored this. He'd always been good at ignoring what he didn't want to think about. "You know…I often thought you a fool for turning down everything he offered you."
Harry's eyes narrowed. "I'm glad I died rather than take any of his offers. He killed my parents. He's taken away everything I've loved in my life."
"Not everything." Ron smirked. "There's still your daughter. And your wife."
Harry held his ground, refusing to let on to the chill he suddenly felt. "You'll never find them."
"I don't have to go looking for them, Harry. They've come here to me."
"Leave them alone. They're innocent. They always have been."
Ron tilted his head to one side. "Maybe your brat is. But Hermione…" He shook his head. "You have no idea."
He didn't want to ask, he wanted to write off the remark as a desperate attempt to throw him off guard…but he found himself asking, "About what?"
"Your ever-so faithful wife hasn't been all that faithful to your memory, mate." He shook his head in mock disappointment. "Although for the life of me I can't imagine why she wanted to go to bed with Remus Lupin. He was an old man when we were kids! Maybe it was the whole werewolf thing. Didn't you used to tell me that she liked it rough? You know…on her hands and knees from…"
He was cut off by Harry's hands wrapping around his throat. Even so, he still managed to get out a strangled chuckle.
"Don't ever talk about my wife again," Harry hissed, slamming him against the wall of the dormitory they'd once shared as friends. "You lying traitor!"
Ron's knee collided with his groin and Harry released him, doubling over in pain. Coughing and laughing at the same time, Ron stood over him, triumphant. "Why tell lies, Harry…when the truth is so much more fun?" He pulled out his wand. "Let's make this quick, shall we? I have better places to be. Crucio!"
The ache in his groin was nothing compared to the excruciating pain that coursed through his entire body. Every nerve ending was on fire. He heard screams. Some belonged to Molly Weasley.
The others, he realized, were his.
Hermione heard her husband's screams and felt her blood freeze. Someone grabbed her arm; Remus, she realized a second later.
"It's coming from…" he started.
"The tower," she finished. "Harry…" Hermione pulled away from him and ducked out of the safety of the cloak.
"Hermione!" she heard her one-time lover calling after her. "Wait!"
But she couldn't wait. Harry was hurting. Harry could die. She couldn't let it happen. Not again.
Her feet took he straight to Gryffindor Tower without her brain even having to remember the path there. The portrait was already open; she ran into the common room just in time to hear another scream, a much more feminine cry. It was coming from the boy's side. Hermione took the stairs two at a time, her breast rising and falling, not from the effort, but from sheer fear.
Entering the room was like entering the hell of her worst nightmares. Her beloved Harry lay on the floor, curled up in agony. Ron stood over him, laughing. And Molly Weasley was dumbstruck, unable to do anything but sob.
Her first instinct was to stop him from attacking Harry. With no other plan in her mind, Hermione ran for Ron, attacking him from behind with her fists, her nails, anything to inflict enough pain to distract him and allow Harry to regain the upper hand.
Ron fought the invisible attack almost too well. His arms flailed for a moment before he thought to reach behind him. She felt his fingers twist into her hair, pulling hard enough to make her scalp bleed. Perhaps it was the pain, or the lowering of her own defenses in such close proximity to the epicenter of evil, but when Ron turned around, she knew right away that he could see her.
"There you are, Hermione." He smiled. "Good to see you."
With that, he flung her across the room. She felt her head connect with the wall. She felt herself crumple onto the floor. She felt the warmth of her own blood pooling under her cheek. But after that, she felt nothing.
To Be Continued