On the night the Dark Lord returned, his arm burned and the first thing he thought of was Granger.

Not Potter, not Dumbledore. Granger.

Nobody could know about Granger.

Potter was probably dead.

Dumbledore was going to ask him to return to the Dark Lord.

His life was going to become infinitely more miserable.

Nobody could know about Granger. She had to stay safe. She was Muggle-born, and she was close to Potter. She'd want to fight.

She had to be kept safe.

He'd been well on his way to hyperventilating when Minerva had put her hand on his arm.

"Something is wrong," he hissed. They'd been patrolling the edge of the maze, on the lookout for more red sparks.

"What is it?"

"My Mark is burning," he said. He desperately wanted to roll up his sleeve and have a look at it. It had been growing darker as the school year progressed; he'd been dreading the moment it burned again. "I'm being Summoned."

"Potter…"

"I don't know." He took a few steps back from the nearest hedge, trying to get a better view. The lot of it had been enchanted with mirroring charms so that the spectators near the entrance of the maze could view the goings-on inside (it would've been a rather boring competition without anything to watch but a bunch of overgrown bushes), but the charms weren't directed at them on the far side.

"Should we call a halt?"

"I don't know," he repeated, gritting his teeth.

"I'll go tell Dumbledore, at least."

"He's sitting with Karkaroff. He likely already knows."