Chapter Ninety-Three

The door to the basement burst open, making Regulus jump.

It slammed closed once more and it looked – for all appearances – as if no one had entered at all, though it was obviously Severus back from his encounter with Eugene, a thought that was immediately confirmed when the momentary silence was followed by the quick thud of steady footsteps heading in the direction of the door to the exit tunnels.

"Wow, hey!" Regulus quickly leapt up from where'd he been sitting, waiting on him – knowing Severus must have seen him upon his arrival – and hurried after the footsteps, "What happened?"

Severus rounded on him, suddenly visible – having yanked off the cloak – a picture of thunderous fury; "Exactly what you would expect to happen when dealing with the crazed ramblings of a lunatic, Regulus."

"What did he say?"

"What do you think?" Severus glowered at him, "There is only one thing in this world that Eugene Hopkins so dearly wishes and you – you – the fool that you are, would bring him here and leave the Foundation to deal with the continuing imprisonment and upkeep of a madman. Well. Knock yourself out, Regulus."

Severus turned on his heel, yanking open the door to the tunnels before shaking open the cloak.

Regulus grabbed it before Severus could cover himself; "The bloodline severance. Could it work?"

He was certain he already knew the answer.

Still, Severus denied it – revealing nothing – and he yanked the cloak roughly back and – when Regulus didn't let go – pulled their faces in close, speaking lowly; "Get your head out of the clouds, Regulus."

Severus yanked the cloak free and flung it back over his head – almost knocking Regulus from his feet as he shoved by him as he vanished – the sound of his echoing footsteps fading as he stormed back down the tunnel.


"Well. Maybe he couldn't get close enough?" Malachi suggested from where he sat beside Harry on the couch in the entrance lobby, knees drawn up to lean his parchment on as he carried on writing at his side.

Harry glanced over at Malachi, giving a shrug at his suggestion, still trying to make sense of the fact that the Easter holidays had long since been and gone and yet Voldemort still remained as strong as ever – if anything, his stronghold was increasing, going by the latest that Harry had managed to read in the newspapers that were managing to make it into the Foundation – when, surely, by now he ought to have been defeated.

For Snape must have been able to get close enough to Voldemort during that period to make a move against him.

And yet, here they were, still, technically, at war. Even if, according to the Ministry propaganda, they had already lost, and were actually considered rebels: enemies of the state, as Mr. Black called them.

Harry tore off a bit of the toast he'd been savoring since the breakfast packs had been released earlier that morning, as if eating it slowly might make it go a bit longer in staving off his hunger until the kids' dining slot came about in the afternoon.

The sound of Malachi's stomach grumbling sounded next to him but neither acknowledged it; the sound no longer providing the same amusement that it had done in the earlier days of the Foundation's rise.

Harry reluctantly finished up the last bite, leaning his head back against the couch with a sigh.

He perked up, abruptly, when he noticed Hermione approaching – with a look of intent as she looked his way – coming into the entrance lobby from the grounds.

Hermione gave him a lopsided smile – a warning that he was to be disappointed – before she took a seat on the couch beside him.

She handed over the – still blank – piece of parchment he'd given to her the night before; full of hope, when he did, that with time she just might be able to figure out what enchantment was being used to hide the contents from him.

"I'm sorry, Harry. I worked on it all night, but I couldn't even figure out what magic has been used to protect it. It's not a concealment charm I've ever come across before."

Harry's shoulders dropped, as he eyed the parchment, having been certain that – if anyone's could break the charm – it would be Hermione.

"Well. Thanks for trying, anyway."

"What is it you're expecting to find?" Hermione asked, curiously.

Harry looked at her, uncertainly; "Um. It's…" he glanced at Malachi who eyed him over the parchment.

Harry cleared his throat and shook his head, "It's nothing."

He looked back down at the parchment in his hand, intently, as if staring – as it seemed he'd been doing for hours before originally handing it over – would in some way break its will and make it reveal itself.

"Look, Harry!" Grace appeared over his shoulder, leaning on the back of the couch. She held out a thorny twig with a yellow rose on the end of it; "The roses are blooming! Daddy used to say yellow was his favourite."

Harry looked at the rose with a smile; "It's pretty, Grace."

"Here, Malachi," Grace held it out to him.

Malachi glanced up from his parchment, giving her a smile, and reached to take it.

"Thanks."

Malachi grasped it – too quickly – the thorn nicking his thumb.

"Oh no! Sorry!" Grace blurted out, when she saw the blood, but Malachi just grinned at her, sticking the top of his thumb in his mouth to give it a sook as shook his head.

"It's cool, Grace," he said, around it; "Don't worry about it."

He tucked the rose into the fold of his robe – displaying it – which made Grace grin widely in turn, before she turned and hurried back to join the Learning Centre kids that were making their way into the ballroom.

"Maybe it's the same charm that protects the map?" Malachi suggested, when it was just the three of them again.

Harry shrugged, even more despondent at the thought; "Opening phrase could be anything, then. Especially since it would've been your dad who set it all up."

"Here –"

Malachi put aside the quill and parchment that was on his lap, and reached for it, Harry handing it over without objection.

Malachi made to lift his wand – swapping the hands which were holding the parchment – and, when he did, the blood that was still trickling a little from his thumb smeared the corner.

And, when it did, it immediately spread like a swirl of ink over the page – becoming ink, even – and the charm protecting the parchment broke, revealing itself to them.

Harry stared at it.

Hermione's eyes were like saucers, as amazed as Harry felt, reading aloud the words that were suddenly revealed to them; "How to identify a sentient horcrux –"

Harry quickly snatched it back from Malachi, eager to read what was written.

Sentient horcruxes.

It took a moment for him to even digest the words before him, but when he finally did it confirmed what he had suspected – ever since seeing the sketch of the snake in Mr. Black's office – that whatever a horcrux was, it in some way connected him to Voldemort.

Harry's eyes darted over the words.

Possessions…

Shared abilities…

Privy to one another's emotions…

A shared consciousness…

A connection that will only strengthen as time goes on.

"Horcruxes," Hermione said, the word almost experimental on her tongue – entirely unaware of the sinking feeling in Harry's gut, as he turned the parchment over, looking for more and finding nothing – before she turned to him; "I'm sure I overheard some of the Foundation researchers discussing them last week."

Harry looked at her, sharply.

"You know what a horcrux is?"

She shook her head.

"Well, no. I just overheard it. But…I'm sure it's a project your mum's working on. Project Gryffith."

Harry swallowed, feeling the twist in his gut intensifying at Hermione's words – that his mum was somehow involved, which really only confirmed how dire this must actually be if they were all in on it – before he cleared his throat; "Oh. Right. I…I'll ask her about it, then."

Hermione smiled, though she looked a bit sceptical, and then she spotted Ron trying to get her attention, indicating at the timepiece as if they had somewhere to be.

"Oh. Ron and I have that workshop – I hope your mum can help you, Harry," she said, as Harry nodded – giving nothing away – before she got to her feet, leaving him and Malachi alone.

Harry turned when she was out of earshot, noticing Malachi reading through the information – with far more deliberation and calmness than Harry had done – before he met Harry's eyes.

"It – um – looks like it's something to do with him," Malachi said, with what Harry quickly realized was forced calmness, rather than actual calmness, "Like you thought."

Harry nodded, eyes going back to the parchment, considering the fact of it for a minute.

That the mind-link he shared – the nightmares and the possessions, the parseltongue and the visions – they were all because of this connection, this horcrux; and, yet, Harry still didn't know enough to truly understand what it – what he – was to Voldemort. Only, from the look on Snape's face as he'd spoken the words to Mr. Black, that it was bad.

Well.

Harry cleared his throat, steadying his unravelling nerves; determined, more than ever, to find out more.

Now.

"You heard Hermione, right? My mum's project. We need to get down to the labs."

Malachi looked uneasy – just as uneasy as Harry felt – but he nodded, rolling up the parchment and handing it back to Harry before the two of them got to their feet.


"Would it work?"

Dumbledore's portrait stared back at him, with an expression as serene as ever.

"Severus, my boy, you forget, that I am but a portrait," the old Headmaster said, cryptically, making Severus roll his eyes; "I know only what Albus Dumbledore – myself, indeed – sought to imbed within the portrait charm prior to our demise. Blood magic is not a branch by which I am particularly familiar."

"Well, knowing what you know of Albus Dumbledore – yourself –" Severus said, impatiently, " – and whatever knowledge he did leave you with, do you believe that Hopkins' solution is a plan that would work?"

Dumbledore's portrait regarded him with – almost – sympathy before the old man raised his eyebrows.

"I think you already know the answer, Severus. Otherwise you wouldn't be asking questions."

Severus swallowed, averting his eyes.

The statement both true and entirely unwelcome.

That Hopkins' solution made perfect sense.

That they could, indeed, evoke the ancestral magic that Regulus had always been so adamant be utilized – knowing that it would be successful – and rid the Wizarding World of the Dark Lord.

For a time, so long as Harry remained a horcrux.

For always, should they manage to eliminate it.

But then…

Severus turned, heading to his – the Headmaster's – desk and took a seat, as he considered the implications.

"If we were to evoke this magic…" Severus began, eyes on the desk; "- at the end of it; Regulus would be dead – sacrificed to enact it. And Harry would be cursed – unable to, ever again, practice magic."

There was a silence in the office.

The weight of the decision before them hanging heavy within the room.

"And the alternative, Severus?"

Severus pinched the bridge of his nose.

At the unspoken accusation in the old man's tone.

Everlasting war and endless suffering.

"It always was your weakness, my boy, though you do try to pretend that you have none."

Severus drew in a breath as he met Dumbledore's eyes once more.

"Love. And try as you might for those whom you love, it is a hard burden to bear when you realise that you cannot save everyone."

Severus shook his head, slowly.

"It is not an option."

Suddenly – entirely unexpectedly – the Dark Mark seared hot and deep in his arm, making him flinch at the intensity – a summons, a battle cry – that made Severus frown before he quickly got to his feet and headed from the office.


Lily crept along the boundaries of the Foundation – Kingsley leading the way, while Tonks took up the rear – and she heard the frightened voice of the little girl behind them.

"Will we be safe here, Mummy?"

"Yes, Honey," the woman – the muggleborn – whose family they'd managed to find while they were out gathering supplies assured her daughter.

"You said that last time," her son – a teenager, no older than Harry – spoke up, almost accusingly; "Now Dad's gone –"

"Shut up, Callum," the daughter – older than both of them – hissed.

"Alright, the tunnels over there," Lily turned to them, at Kingsley nod, "Can you see them?"

They all nodded, the small group they had managed to gather, the location having been spoken already, revealing the Foundation's whereabouts so that they could be brought to safety.

"All clear. Right. Let's go," Tonks said, as they crept out from the cover of the trees – ready to make the short distance to the tunnels – but, as they did, a spell fired out, halting them.

"Get back, get down!" Kingsley ordered the people they'd brought with them, as Death Eaters quickly engaged them.


"This is my mum's one; see," Harry said, as he nodded at the plaque upon the door; at the names that had been listed upon it.

Project Gryffith.

Cornelia Heart.
Lily Potter.
Mortimer Littlewood.
Quinton Gold.

Malachi started to nod – to speak – but Harry put his hand on the door and pushed it open – their assigned security taking up their usual guarding stances at either side of the door without question – and he headed inside, Malachi close on his heels.

"There must be something – " Harry began.

"Oh! Hello there!" a cheerful voice greeted them, making them both turn abruptly in its direction.

Malachi immediately smiled; "Hi, Healer Heart."

"Ah, Mr. Black," she smiled, fondly, at him as she reached them, putting a hand on his shoulder; "What brings the boss' son down here, hm? Not sent down to have a good old spy on the employees I hope."

Malachi grinned.

"My dad would never do that to you, Healer Heart. Can't say the same for everyone else, though."

Healer Heart laughed, giving a nod, before her eyes went to Harry; "You must be Lily's boy."

Harry nodded, smiling; "Yeah. Harry –" he held out a hand, "Potter."

She shook it; "It's a pleasure to meet you. So, if it wasn't your father, then what brings you two boys into my lab?"

"My mum," Harry said, smoothly, "She was telling me about this project – um – Gryffith? And I was interested. So, she said we could come down and read some of the stuff about it."

Malachi was clearly fighting both a frown and a smirk of amusement, at how easily Harry had mustered up the lie, while Healer Heart's eyebrows lifted in obvious surprise.

"Oh. Well. It is rather advanced for youngsters such as yourselves…" she said, before her expression relaxed and she smiled, "Though I suppose I shouldn't be too surprised. Your mother really is one of our most gifted researchers."

Harry smiled, feeling proud, all of a sudden; "Yeah. Yeah, she's the best."

"Well, if you're taking an interest in her field so young, the world just better prepare itself that her son may just be following in her footsteps," she laughed, heartily, before she nodded at one of the benches; "That's your mother's bench over there."

Harry grinned, delighted that his blabbing had actually worked, and shared a quick look with Malachi; "Thanks, Healer Heart."

She simply nodded, and the two of them headed over.

"That was easy," Malachi whispered in his ear when they were out of earshot, Healer Heart heading into one of the cupboards up at the front of the room.

Harry walked almost with a bounce – delighted and more than a little proud himself, impressed that he'd managed to lie so smoothly – and the two of them reached his mum's bench.

"Okay, so –" Harry shrugged.

He reached down, grabbing a tray and pulled it out first, putting it up on the top of the bench; unable to help but get a smile when he noticed that all of these were fully visible – no attempts to conceal the contents at all – and he pulled out the first roll of parchment, handing some over to Malachi.

"Okay," Harry said again, as he began reading the first one; "This one's about…stitching torn and damaged souls back together or something."

Harry frowned – that didn't sound good – and he shared a look with Malachi, who turned back to his own, reading it carefully before he told Harry what he had.

"Um…this says that – acts of great evil – like murder – are what cause the souls to be damaged," Malachi shrugged; "Inhumane acts."

Harry frowned, leaning closer; "Does it say anything about horcruxes?"

Malachi shook his head.

Harry reached for the next one in the pile – A Story of Souls – his frown deepening as he looked through it; "This one's about souls too. About how if the soul is so damaged it can…split off, accidentally, and bind to another which would tether a person to –" Harry met Malachi's eyes; "A fate worse than death; and prevent them moving on to the afterlife."

Harry started to feel uneasy then as his eyes skimmed the parchments in front of him – the word 'soul' seeming to be everywhere - and he felt a sinking feeling in his gut, as Malachi lifted another, carrying on reading.

Harry's eyes went back to the Story of Souls parchment, eyes frantically moving over the text – seeking the word horcrux – but finding none but, still, it didn't feel irrelevant. These words before him,

Tethered.

Snape had used that word, once. Well. Untethered; when they'd been talking about his nightmares.

When Harry had felt like he had been moving back and forth – pulled this way and that between himself and Voldemort and the snake – untethered, himself, to his own body.

Harry drew in a breath as things slowly started to click into place; Harry's heart beating fast as it all came to him.

Shared consciousnesses and visions and mind links and abilities and souls and –

"Here, horcruxes!" Malachi suddenly said, hand quickly reaching for some parchments that were still in the tray and he lifted it up, eyes quickly skimming it; "Look, it says here…"

Malachi's voice trailed off.

His friend's eyes narrowed in concentration – in consternation, even – as he took in each word before him.

Harry swallowed the lump in his throat.

"What does it say?"

Malachi stared at the parchment – but his eyes weren't moving, now, no longer reading – and, when he didn't make a move to say anything, Harry reached and took the parchment from his hands and – only then – did Malachi meet his eyes.

With a look that told him that what he was thinking – dreading – was probably right.

Harry cleared his throat, reading the words before him with far more calmness than he felt.

"A being might intentionally bind themselves to life by splitting their soul in organized ritual – during which they would imbed the fragment of their soul into a vessel – and, in doing so, anchor themselves to life until a full resurrect…" Harry hesitated, as flashes came back to him – flashes of his blood flowing from his palm and a Death Eater's hand falling into a cauldron and Voldemort rising and Snape – before he read on; " – resurrection ritual can be performed. Returning the being to life. The vessel containing the fragment of soul better known by the term in Black Magic as…a horcrux."

Harry swallowed – tried to – but it caught a bit, and his voice became quieter, almost hoarse, as he finished reading.

"So long as the horcrux remains undamaged beyond magical repair…the being from where the soul originated may never perish."

A heavy silence fell upon them.

Harry's mind racing, now, in time with his heart as he tried to make sense of the words.

It didn't take long.

"Maybe…maybe you heard wrong," Malachi said, quietly – but with a desperation in his voice that Harry had never heard before – before he added, "It doesn't make any sense –"

Harry got a humourless smile, as he shook his head.

"It makes perfect sense," Harry murmured.

When Malachi said nothing, Harry met his eyes.

And he knew Malachi it knew it too.

Suddenly, everything made sense.

The visions and the nightmares.

The fact that Snape hadn't made any move against Voldemort yet.

The prophecy that said one must die by the hand of the other…

Harry released a breath as he realized the truth; it coming heavy upon him.

What it truly meant. It had never meant what he'd thought it did – ridiculous as he'd always considered it, anyway – no.

Harry wasn't the one who was supposed to kill Voldemort.

How could he, after all.

No.

It was simple.

Easy.

For them to defeat Voldemort, Harry was supposed to die.

He had to die.

It took a second for him to come back to himself – to realise his hands were shaking as he held the parchment that had revealed the truth to him – and his vision blurred, then, as he still struggled to understand it.

Because that wasn't right.

He wasn't, really, supposed to die; not when they'd all fought so hard for…

"Harry?"

Malachi stepped in closer to him and Harry met his eyes.

Malachi's eyes glimmered too, the same as Harry knew his own did, and there was an uncertainty in his friend's expression, like he had no idea what to say.

Harry got that.

He didn't know what to say, either.

Didn't know, even, what to think.

"Um."

His voice came out in a shudder – and he felt afraid then and he closed his eyes – and then he felt Malachi's arms hug him tight.

Harry leaned on him, gratefully, releasing a breath he didn't realise he'd been holding.

"It's okay, Harry," Malachi said, quietly; "They're gonna fix it."

Harry shook his head, eyes closed.

Because, much as he wanted to believe that; to follow dreams and chase bloody rainbows he knew, he knew that that's all they'd be doing.

And he felt – for the first time in months – the prickle of a consciousness that wasn't his own in the back of his mind that he quickly slammed down on; pulling up his occlumency barriers, just as Snape had shown him to.

But, even then, as he did – keeping him out – Harry knew there was no escaping him.

Voldemort.

Not for anyone.

Not so long as he lived.


Regulus twirled the quill between his fingers, absentmindedly, as his head dropped back to lean against the headrest of the chair in his office.

His mind lost in memories and regrets of times long since passed – that, sometimes, felt only yesterday – as flashes of Andromeda and Narcissa and Sirius and Evelyn; Anchor Ridge and Voldemort and Eugene Hopkins passed by this mind.

He knew, now, not to linger too long in there.

To do so served no one.

Neither those who were lost, nor those who remained behind; who needed him to pull himself together on this – for Severus clearly was unwilling to be of any help – and he tossed the quill onto his desk, getting to his feet.

Fully intending to go down to the labs and speak with Hopkins himself, now – he surely knew something, judging by Severus' over-the-top exit that morning – but, as Regulus made his way around the desk, the door to his office opened – a hasty knock made as it moved inwards – and he immediately smiled at seeing who it was.

All the dark thoughts driven away by the sight of his wife, who waddled – well into her third trimester now – into the room with a grin.

"Ah. Well this is a pleasant surprise," Regulus said, as he approached, immediately taking her into his arms.

"Oh really?" Julia raised an eyebrow, a smile playing on her lips as she held up a slip of parchment – one he'd sent down earlier that afternoon – a request she come to him at her earliest convenience; "Expected me to ignore this, did you?"

Regulus chuckled, pressing his lips to hers, before saying; "I suppose I'm always just knocked off my feet to see you."

Julia rolled his eyes, laughing and shaking her head; "I don't have long. Malachi didn't come down this afternoon."

Regulus frowned, immediately concerned.

"Is he alright?"

She nodded; "Yes, he's fine. He sent a message, don't worry. Tied up with a project, or something, with Harry, he said."

Regulus glanced at the door, a frown still lingering on his brow, because shirking a responsibility to spend time with a friend wasn't his son, not at all. And he was immediately certain that – for Malachi to do so – something must be wrong.

"What?" Julia looked at him, carefully, as if sensing the direction of his thoughts.

Regulus cleared his throat, shaking his head and giving her a smile – making a mental note to catch up with Malachi at the next available opportunity – and focused on the current problems at hand, the reason he'd asked Julia here in the first place.

The blood wards.

Or, rather, the lack of them.

"Now, dear," he began – with a pet name and a grin that made her chuckle and eye him, suspiciously – he tucked her hair behind her ear; "I know you're not going to like this."

"Ah."

"Yeah," he nodded; "I was wondering how you'd feel about going back to the house. With Malachi. Tonight."

"Hm. For the night?" she asked, her eyes already revealing she knew his answer.

He shook his head.

"No. No. For a while."

"And obviously you wouldn't be joining us."

Regulus' hand slipped from where it had been caressing her cheek, down to her shoulder, as she went on – not needing to wait for his answer, for she already knew.

"What about the Healing Unit?"

"We have other Healers –"

"Researchers –"

"Qualified –" Regulus tapped her on the nose with his finger, making her serious expression become a smile, " – healers, who, quite frankly, could do with brushing up on their skills at practicing healing, right now."

Regulus glanced down, his hand going to her stomach with an impish grin when he felt the baby move beneath it; "Besides, it won't be long until this little one makes their appearance and, when that happens, I would have insisted that you spend at least the next month recovering in bed, as it is. This only brings forward the timetable a bit."

"Oh, really; and, speaking of which, is our baby supposed to be delivered into the world by their big brother? He and I hadn't quite reached that tutorial yet, I'm afraid."

Regulus grinned, shaking his head; "No. No, of course not. Malachi will have assistants; I was hoping Draco –"

Julia laughed.

" – of course, and Harry and Grace– assuming Lily can be convinced – would accompany you. You'd never be lonely in that tiny little house, I'll make sure of that."

"Oh, we certainly wouldn't be that," Julia conceded, with a nod.

A smile still played on her lips – but the sparkle in her eyes was gone – and he knew, then, that she would agree with him. That she'd do as he asked and go.

Regulus drew in a breath, arms going back around her to draw her closer – as close as he could with the baby between them – and said, more seriously; "Hopkins won't help us. I'm going to go down there in a little while but…I don't like our chances. And with the Fidelius situation as it is, the Foundation isn't safe anymore. Even with the wards in place, the price on the kids' heads are just –"

He didn't need to go on – the look in his wife's eyes enough to tell him that she understood – and she nodded.

Regulus smiled.

"We'll set up another communication box," he told her, before nodding at the box already on his desk; "Operated by blood, just like that one, so that you and I can contact one another whenever we need to and I'll send through food and information and anything else that you'd all need –"

"Yeah," Julia said, before she drew in a breath and nodded; "Yeah. It sounds perfect, Regulus. You deal with that and I will go finish up –"

"Julia," Regulus interrupted her – a heaviness settling upon him, now that she'd agreed to go – and he touched his forehead to hers; "I will be there, when our baby makes their grand debut. I promise."

Julia smiled.

He raised an eyebrow, smiling in turn; "I wouldn't miss that for the world."

Julia's eyes flickered between eyes – brown eyes full of adoration – before she leaned in, kissing him soundly.

Regulus drew her closer, returning her affections.

It was, of course, not a goodbye kiss – they would see one another again before the day was through – but it certainly felt like one; she giving it all in that single moment and so he did too, making sure she knew it.

How much he loved her.

And he could have gone on and on, he was quite certain, right there in his office but it seemed not to be, for they were interrupted then.

A bright, silvery light filling the room that had been aglow with the dim light of dusk – almost making them flinch as they drew back from one another – as the familiar silver doe swept before them.

Regulus felt a jolt, immediately – but he wasn't certain if it were of gladness that Severus had returned, or of concern, for Severus would never send a Patronus before nightfall – and then it spoke with Severus' voice.

Something it rarely did, when entering the Foundation's boundaries.

One simple, dreadful word.

"Run."

There was a second of stillness – as if all hung on a moment – before, as if on cue, a thunderous roar sounded beyond the windows of his office.

And they turned, just in time to catch it.

The walls and windows of the Tonks Facility suddenly blasting out – hit by an explosion – as the sight of Death Eaters apparating into the grounds and dementors swooping down from the skies met their eyes.