If there was one thing Hermione was certain of, it was that she was not being taken back to her cell. This did not come as a relief; if she wasn't going back to that small, windowless prison of a classroom, that meant she was going somewhere far worse.

Still being floated down the hall like a stack of wood, Hermione was helpless to the situation. The Death Eater that guided her stiff body with her wand looked calm, and she even hummed softly to herself. She didn't seem malicious, though she didn't exactly seem to have a guilty conscience, either. She looked like she knew this was where she was meant to be, and what she was meant to be doing, and she would not hear a single argument against it.

Hermione wanted to scream at her, but her voice was locked up inside her throat by the binding spell. Why are you doing this? Do you really want Voldemort to destroy everything? Do you really want to lay me down at his feet and watch him kill me?

The woman turned a corner and suddenly Hermione dropped from the air, hitting the ground with an impact that knocked the breath out of her. At once, her limbs were released from the curse and she could move again. She jerked into a sitting position, gasping as she tried to drag air back into her lungs.

The Death Eater was studying the ground in that same calm, self-assured way. "Why, would you look at that," she said, folding her arms and tipping her head to the side as if surveying a piece of complicated art. "There's a scuff in the floor. I really should get Filch to fix that."

Hermione continued to sit and stare at her, dumbfounded. Perhaps this woman was out of her right mind.

"I really should be working," the woman said, a little more forcefully. "But I just can't focus when I know that there is a scuff on this nice floor. Perhaps I'll stare at it for a few moments longer." She added meaningfully, "Wouldn't want to bother the Dark Lord in the dungeons just because of a little scratch like this."

It clicked. Hermione scrambled to her feet, her thank you sticking in her throat. She didn't think this Death Eater wanted her gratitude; she was merely giving her one chance, and one chance alone, to escape while she could. Hermione had no doubt that in only a few seconds' time, the woman would easily go back on her offer, curse her again, and carry her off to Voldemort.

Hermione ran. She looked back over her shoulder, but only once, to find the woman still closely scrutinizing the floor. She turned a corner and paused to catch her breath, her mind struggling to wrap around what had just happened.

A Death Eater had spared her. Did that mean that there was still good in people, even those who had joined the Dark Lord? Or could that have been one of the "undercover Death Eaters" that Luna had spoken of?

Hermione began to walk, striding purposefully toward the dungeons. It seemed a little counterproductive, having just escaped being taken to Voldemort, only to go to him willingly right afterward. But she had no choice.

With any luck, Ron and the others would already be there, or hiding nearby, ready to kill the snake. And then, at last, Voldemort would die at the point of her wand, just as she'd been imagining for five long, painful years.

The instant sense of dread and guilt that accompanied the sight of Filch reminded Ron vividly of his school days. It was easy to associate the caretaker with detention. But this time there would be no detention—it would be a much worse consequence than that.

A Death Eater stood just behind Filch, peering into the storage closet with a perplexed expression. "What the devil are they doing in there?" he demanded.

Filch's jowls quivered with joy. "They're members of the Order," he snarled. "Thinking they can hide away in a broom closet."

"The Order?" the Death Eater repeated sharply. "Bring them out at once." Ron decided that he very strongly disliked this man, and would have even if he weren't a Death Eater. His pompous attitude reminded him painfully of his brother Percy.

A rough mew from Filch's feet made Ron look down and swear under his breath. It was Mrs. Norris, old and skinny, her lamplike eyes filmy with age, but still there all the same.

Why won't that damn cat die?

"You heard him," Filch growled, looking like he was taking great pleasure in this. "Out."

"You can't order us around," said Ginny, fixing him with a glare. "You aren't a threat to us. One Death Eater and a Squib—ha!"

Filch's face turned an unhealthy shade of purple and he spluttered for words. Ron reached for his wand, but before he could utter a single spell, a calm, "Expelliarmus," sent his wand flying out of his hand, through the open closet door, and into the hand of the Death Eater. And, to his horror, so did the wands of his friends, too.

"Oi!" he shouted angrily, starting forward only to be held back by Ginny and Neville. "Give us back our wands, you slug!"

"Ron, don't," Ginny hissed at him. "He has four wands at the moment, I really don't think we should be provoking him."

The Death Eater, who wasn't much older than them and had an irritating smirk on his face, twirled all three of their wands through his long fingers. "Didn't your mummies ever teach you not to be disrespectful to your elders?"

"If you think we'll go with you just because we're unarmed," said Neville quietly, "you're wrong."

"Am I? Perhaps you'd rather come in pieces, then?"

Ron's temper was rising quickly. He hated the man's confidence, the way he looked at them down his nose like they were nothing more than troublesome children. He clearly didn't feel they were threatening enough to take seriously, especially without their wands.

If he believed that, he had another thing coming.

Ron reached behind him and grabbed the first thing his hand came into contact with—which was, in fact, a bucket. Seizing the element of surprise, he swung the bucket at Filch's head with all his might. Filch howled and staggered backward, holding his bleeding nose, and Ron darted out of the closet, followed closely by Ginny and Neville, who had taken up cleaning weapons of their own—Neville held a mop, while Ginny wielded a plunger like a sword.

Mrs. Norris hissed at their weapons, hackles raised. Ron glanced at Filch, who still moaned over his face, and wondered what was hidden beneath the tarp in his bucket that had been heavy enough to break the caretaker's nose.

"Oh, my," the Death Eater said mockingly, ignoring Filch's pitiful whimpers. "Cleaning supplies. Whatever shall I do?"

Ginny took a swing at him with her plunger, but he merely sidestepped it with infuriating calm and flicked his wand, sending her weapon flying clear across the corridor where it hit the wall with a pathetic thump and fell limply to the ground.

Ron clenched his teeth. Despite the arrogance and irritating demeanor of this person, he was very skilled with magic. It didn't help matters that he was in possession of their wands, and they were left fighting like Muggles.

Neville went for it next, smacking the Death Eater smartly in the knees—perhaps meaning to knock his legs out from under him—but it did little damage besides making the man wince. He stepped nimbly onto the end of the mop, kicking it backward and ripping it out of Neville's hands.

Before he could fully recover from Neville's attack, Ron dove at him and swung the bucket at his head, just as he had with Filch—

And the bucket exploded inches away from the man's face.

Ron stumbled a few steps backward, for a moment wondering if the impact of the attack had destroyed his weapon, but the Death Eater stood looking insultingly bored, twirling his wand idly between his fingers.

"You'll have to do a lot better than that," he taunted.

Ron looked down at the remnants of the bucket, and his eyes fell on what he had thought to be a piece of tarp or scrap cloth—but it was neither of those things.

It was an old, beaten hat, with a rip near its hem that could almost have passed as a mouth.

Ron's heart felt like it was trying to thud its way out of his chest. He lunged for the hat, snatching it into his hands and holding it tight so that the Death Eater couldn't hope to grab it away. But the man seemed disinterested in the hat; in fact, he watched Ron's wild dive for it with amusement, making no move to stop him.

"By all means, go ahead," he chuckled. "Hit me with your little wizard's hat. I'm sure it'll do loads of damage."

Ron shut his eyes for a second, willing the hat to pull through for him like it had for Harry. Reaching in, his heart in his throat, at first he felt nothing but empty air. Disappointment threatened to smother him, until—

There! His fingers wrapped around something cold and solid, and he yanked upward, withdrawing a heavy, glittering sword that send energy flooding through Ron's whole being.

Filch and the pompous Death Eater gaped, perhaps trying to figure out how a full sized sword had come to be sitting in the beaten up hat Ron held in one hand.

"That's the Sword of Gryffindor," the Death Eater stuttered. "That's supposed to be locked up in Miss Lestrange's office—"

Ron pointed the sword at the Death Eater's chest, hoping he looked sufficiently threatening now. "Drop the wands," he said authoritatively, and, to his amazement and triumph, the Death Eater's fingers opened as if he had been burned, and all the wands—including the man's—clattered to the floor, where Ginny scooped them up and distributed them to their owners, pocketing the Death Eater's.

"Please," the man said weakly, all of his bravado having vanished. He was now trying to turn big, pleading eyes on the three of them, begging for mercy that he never would have granted them. "Don't kill me."

Filch made a muffled sound from behind his bleeding nose, his hands still clamped over his face. It must have been a noise of agreement.

For a moment, Ron considered tossing them out the window, but that would have been too conspicuous.

"I'll think about it," he said. "First, answer this—where's You-Know-Who?"

"In the dungeons," the man said at once, feeling no qualms about betraying his master when his own life was on the line.

"Thanks, mate," said Ron, and with that Stunned him and then Filch. He, Ginny, and Neville locked them in the broom closet—along with Mrs. Norris—and didn't give them a second thought.

"Wow," Ginny breathed, staring at the sword with huge eyes. "It came out of the Sorting Hat. Just like it did for Harry in the Chamber…" Her voice trailed off and her eyes grew sad as she looked at the sword, perhaps imagining a different wielder standing before her.

Ron cleared his throat uncomfortably and held up the hat. "What should we do with this?"

"Put it in your pocket," suggested Neville. "It doesn't deserve to get thrown back in a broom closet."

Ron nodded in agreement, slipping the bedraggled hat into his pocket and feeling a wave of fondness for it. He had never once imagined that the Sword of Gryffindor would appear for him—Harry was the one that had the true spirit of a Gryffindor, brave enough to wield the founder's own sword. Not ordinary Ron Weasley, forever overshadowed by his older brothers.

He gripped the hilt tighter, pride pulsing through him, nodded to his friends, and started off down the hallway again, feeling stronger, taller, and braver than he ever had before. Ginny and Neville walked silently beside him as they headed for the dungeons, where maybe, finally, they could end this.

Hang on, Hermione, he thought fiercely. I'm coming.

Hermione had been overjoyed to find that the Invisibility Cloak had stayed clutched in her frozen hand throughout her trip down the corridors with the Death Eater woman. The very thought of leaving it behind to be trampled by hundreds of feet, maybe even stolen by a curious student or worse, a Death Eater, had been devastating. This was Harry's cloak, a memento of his legend, and Hermione couldn't bear to part with it again.

She slid it silently round her shoulders, instantly feeling better as she disappeared from sight. It also provided a smidgeon of warmth from the chill that steadily worsened as she descended into the dungeons. She wasn't familiar with this part of the castle, and she had been wandering for several frustrating minutes, but now she was standing in front of a pair of large wooden doors. She could hear voices from behind them; creeping closer, she pressed her ear against the door to listen.

"Fireworks?" the high, cold voice of Voldemort said, his tone sending chills down Hermione's spine. "Why would there be fireworks in the school at all?"

"I don't know, sir," answered a very nervous man, whose voice sparked a sense of recognition inside of Hermione. "But we can't seem to get rid of them. It's worked the school into a frenzy—"

"Control the situation." Voldemort cut him off, having no patience for excuses. "Do not disappoint me again, Lucius. I have forgiven you more than enough times."

Hermione felt her heart jolt in her chest at the sound of Lucius Malfoy's name. She had begun to think that he had fled from Voldemort's service, being too weak to handle the pressure. She should have known that he wouldn't leave without Draco, and seeing as he'd been stationed at Azkaban, he had obviously not deserted.

"Yes, my lord," Lucius Malfoy murmured, his voice quaking pathetically.

Running footsteps made Hermione spin around. The very same woman who had just let her escape was running toward her, following another male Death Eater. For a moment Hermione was certain they had seen her and were going to tackle her to the ground. She sidestepped them and they raced right past her, through the door and into the room. Hermione slipped in after them before the door could close, careful not to let the hem of the cloak catch on the knob.

The room was large, with a high ceiling that made everyone's voices echo back to them. It was cold and gray and seeped darkness—although that could have been the presence of Voldemort, who sat in a throne-like chair with his white, spidery fingers templed together. Nagini was draped around his shoulders like a grotesque shawl.

The woman and the other Death Eater had stopped, panting, at the foot of Voldemort's throne. "My lord," the woman said, bowing her head to him. "The Mudblood has escaped."

Hermione had to smile, even though she didn't quite appreciate being called a Mudblood. The woman was making herself out to seem as much of a dumbfounded victim as any other Death Eater—taking herself out of the spotlight and making sure she wasn't associated with Hermione's escape.

Voldemort's face remained the same, though his red eyes grew colder. "Escaped?" he repeated softly. "How?"

"I don't know, my lord," the other man stammered, looking white as a sheet and absolutely petrified. "Th-there was no guard, and the cell was empty…"

"You are useless," Voldemort spat, and suddenly the Elder Wand was in his hand, sweeping toward the Death Eater man and sending him flying across the room. He hit the wall hard, only a few feet away from Hermione, and slumped to the ground, unconscious or worse.

Hermione scarcely dared to breathe. She hadn't expected Voldemort to be so furious at her escape—she was just another Mudblood, after all. Wasn't she?

"Find her," he said in a voice that seemed to chill the entire room. Several Death Eaters milling by the door scrambled to obey, looking relieved to escape Voldemort's mounting fury.

"But my lord," the woman began tentatively, "won't she be long gone by now?"

"She came here for a reason. She will not leave without it." He cocked his head to one side, his red eyes finding the scrawny, tall, slightly hunched man at his side. "I'm putting you in charge of the search, Lucius. Make sure she doesn't cause any more trouble."

Hermione could hardly believe the man standing beside the throne of Lord Voldemort was Lucius Malfoy. He no longer held himself with authority and dignity. He didn't look down his nose anymore; in fact, he kept his eyes lowered to the ground, his head bent, his long blonde hair straggly and lacking the careful care it had always displayed. Hermione almost felt sorry for him. Almost.

"Yes, my lord," he muttered, hurrying toward the door, his passage ruffling the cloak at Hermione's feet.

Several things happened at once then.

Voldemort's eyes zeroed in on the place where Hermione stood, and he said slowly, "Wait."

Barely a second after he had spoken, the doors to the chamber flew open, sending Malfoy staggering back, his face a mask of shock. Three people charged into the room, firing spells so quickly it was almost impossible for the eye to keep up. The Death Eaters stationed around the room—including Hermione's rescuer—immediately hit the floor, Stunned.

Hermione had to bite her lip to hold back her cry of joy. Ron, Ginny, and Neville stood tall in the center of the room, wands pointed threateningly at Voldemort, who had not risen from his throne. In fact, he observed the three of them with a look of boredom.

"Well, well," he said coldly. "If it isn't Harry Potter's little friends. I knew you would try to hunt me down yourselves eventually. As stupid and foolish as he was, all of you."

"We're here for him," said Ron, voice trembling with fury. "We're here to finish what he started."

Voldemort rose fluidly from his chair, and Hermione's stomach lurched. Voldemort was one of the most feared wizards of all time, not to mention in possession of the Elder Wand. She pictured her friends falling, one by one, at the Dark Lord's feet, and she almost threw the cloak off herself and sprinted to their sides. But it would be no use if she gave herself up now.

"Where's Hermione?" Ginny demanded, her voice a snarl.

Voldemort's red eyes glinted. "Ah," he said quietly. "If you seek the Mudblood, you're too late. She's dead."

A stunned silence filled the room for only a moment. Hermione felt frozen; she had not expected this outright lie. Her eyes found Ron, whose hands had curled into fists at his sides, and fear at what he might do next snapped her out of her paralysis. She started toward him, only to stop in her tracks as his voice, low and strangely calm, echoed around the chamber.

"You're lying."

Voldemort surveyed them with eyes devoid of anything human. For an instant, his gaze flickered to where Hermione stood, and she had no doubt in her mind that he'd known she was there all along.

"You are foolish children, and nothing more. Yet I cannot allow you to leave this place." He raised his wand, a cold smile curling his lips. "I'm sure it's appropriate that you all meet the same end as your hero, Harry Potter. Let your last thought be this: you will die here, in this chamber, while I live on forever."