A/N: So here's what happened. I uploaded the document on Monday, and thought everything was fine and dandy until I realized that I never actually posted it. D'oh!
I am literally in the last five weeks left of school, and because I'm graduating this year, things are especially hectic. Therefore, please be understanding (as you always are!) and a bit patient, because my schedule is all over the place, and I'm barely keeping my head on straight. Thanks!
Anti-Litigation Charm: I do not own!
Please review!
Harry knew that they were still going to the meeting. There was no stopping it at this stage, and he was determined to go. It wasn't out of some sense of pride or mulishness, but more along the lines of the idea that this was his best opportunity to face Voldemort head-on and on his own terms. He spent several hours in the darkness of night lying in bed and gazing at the ceiling, thinking it through. If Voldemort was there to kill him, that meant Nagini would probably there as well. It was the only opportunity Harry was sure of that would allow him to take out that final Horcrux.
And if they were wrong—if Voldemort didn't show up—then at the very least, Harry decided it would be a day spent getting a better grasp on what the Ministry planned to do about him. And possibly Harry himself, since everyone was so utterly convinced that he was the Chosen One.
He'd have his invisibility cloak and a couple of Fred and George's joke items on him, just in case. He mentally snorted at the thought of taking down Lord Voldemort with Weasley's Wizard Wheezes' products, but they were very useful, and he needed anything that might help him. The thought of what might happen tomorrow made his heart race with fear and excitement, and his blood turned to ice with dread, but he was dead set on finishing it now.
The fact that Hermione seemed to have a plan in mind also calmed his frayed nerves. The fact that she had not yet given him the ring—or might never, even—worried him, because Dumbledore had indicated it was important. For all that Harry was hiding Hermione's activities from the Headmaster, he knew Dumbledore had a plan in mind, and was certain that he knew something that Hermione was overlooking. He tried to fall asleep, knowing that staying up worrying wouldn't help him tomorrow, but he finally gave in and sat up in bed. Ron was snoring on the other side of the room, and Harry quietly slipped his socks on and went downstairs.
He was surprised to find the fireplace still a-glow with dying embers, and even more surprised to find Hermione sitting in Mr. Weasley's chair, lost in thought. She jerked up when she saw him appear, and Harry hadn't missed the look of instinctive fear and alertness in her eyes before she masked it.
"You should be in bed," she said wearily.
"Couldn't sleep," Harry said, suppressing a yawn. "What are you still up for?"
"No reason," she said unconvincingly.
Harry gazed at her. "Something's up, isn't it?"
A muted crack was his response as Kreacher appeared in the room, causing Harry to jump.
"Mistress Mudblood requested to know about the dragon's whereabouts," Kreacher said, bowing low. "Kreacher has come to tell Mistress Mudblood that the dragon is not at the Hebrides Isles. It has been relocated to Malfoy Manor."
Harry's jaw dropped as he realized exactly who Kreacher was talking about. Hermione sat up a bit straighter in her chair.
"Are you sure?"
"Kreacher is certain," the house-elf replied, looking insulted at the mere suggestion he had not done his job correctly.
"Where in Malfoy Manor?" Hermione demanded, getting to her feet. "What are they doing with him?"
"They have the beast chained in the wine cellar," Kreacher croaked. "They is doing nothing to him but keeping him there."
Hermione frowned. "Is there anyone else down there?"
"They is keeping the dragon chained at one end, and is brewing on the other," Kreacher said. "Mistress Mudblood's husband is still working there, reading from the book Master Malfoy brought with him."
Harry turned to look at Hermione, who was wearing a terrifying expression that he couldn't quite quantify.
"Why do they have Charlie?" he demanded.
Hermione shook her head; clearly, she did not know, or would not say. She slowly sat back in her chair, and Harry could see she was weighing the situation carefully. At last she said, "Thank you, Kreacher. You may go."
Kreacher bowed low, and then disappeared with a noisy crack.
"You should go to bed, Harry," Hermione said, and she sounded very tired. "Tomorrow will be a busy day, to say nothing else."
He turned to leave, when Hermione stopped him.
"Wait." He watched as she slowly slid off Gaunt's ring, and he felt his heart skip a beat at the thought that she might really give it to him. He watched her tap it once with her wand, and there was a shimmer of air as a double appeared. She handed one to him, which he thought was the real one, but was not certain.
"You said the Dark Lord wanted something from me." She slid the ring back onto her finger. "I believe this is what he was referring to."
"Why does he want it?" Harry blurted out, turning the ring over in his palm. "He doesn't understand its true value."
"No, he doesn't," Hermione agreed, slowly rising to her feet. "But he still wants it back."
"Why are you giving it to me?" Harry asked, tucking the ring into his left pajama pocket.
To his surprise, Hermione took a long time to respond. He saw her gaze turn to the dying embers and take on a far-away look before she finally snapped back to look at him.
"It doesn't matter," she said at last. "But take it knowing that I trust you not to abuse it."
Harry understood exactly what she was saying.
"I won't," he promised.
Hermione placed a hand on his shoulder, giving him a gentle squeeze, and then she disappeared up the stairs. Harry followed, returning to his room to find Ron still snoring. When he climbed back into bed, he did indeed feel a bit more at ease, but his anxiety still remained.
He comforted himself with the notion that at the very least, he knew his best friend from ages ago still had faith in him.
~o~O~o~
The next day was a busy affair. He was awoken at an unaccustomed and early hour, since the meeting was scheduled for that morning, and came down the stairs to the smell of bacon and eggs.
"You can't go to the Ministry looking like that!" Mrs. Weasley declared, taking in his messy hair and disheveled shirt and jeans.
"This isn't like my trial," Harry said, taking a seat. Ron plopped down in the seat beside him with a yawn. "They're not going to throw me into Azkaban for not wearing a tie. They just want the Chosen One's opinion on something I have absolutely no qualifications to give an opinion on."
That did nothing to stop Mrs. Weasley from letting out of a huff of exasperation and attacking his hair with a wet comb, and Harry resigned himself to her attempts to fix his hair as he helped himself to several slices of bacon. He went upstairs to put on something more presentable, and while digging through his socks, discovered one that was lumpy and hard. He stuck his hand into it, and pulled out the bottle of Felix Felicis that Slughorn had given him. He'd almost forgotten that he had put it there. He hesitated, and then tore the seal off and uncorked it, allowing himself a tiny sip before corking it again. He smacked his lips at the taste, and then put it back before he could be tempted to take more. His nerves were frayed and jittery, but within moments, the potion had calmed him with its almost serendipitous guidance.
They left shortly after, and Harry was still yawning as Mr. Weasley Flooed them into the Ministry. He was surprised to find Hermione already there, standing beside the restored Fountain of Magical Brethren in quiet discussion with Scrimgeour and Proudfoot. Proudfoot looked worried; Scrimgeour was tense. Hermione's expression was as carefully blank as ever. Dumbledore was at Hermione's side, but he seemed more intent on listening to the grave contents of the conversation rather than voicing his own opinion.
"So what is this?" Ron asked, as he finished off a bite of toast. "We're not having the meeting out here, are we?"
"Doubtful," Harry said, as Mr. Weasley herded them both toward the fountain. Witches and wizards alike stopped to glance over at their slightly bedraggled group, but Harry was used to this by now. The last few times he had popped into the Ministry, plenty of people had stopped to get a good look. A few had even shook his hand or asked for his autograph. It made Harry nothing short of uncomfortable, and he wished they would simply get on with it.
"Well, the Minister's office is too small, you can hardly fit more than five people in there," Ron said.
"They'll probably use one of the courtrooms," Mr. Weasley said, just loud enough for them to hear. "They like to use them for this sort of thing, especially since the rest of the Wizengamot will be there as well."
"Wait," Harry said, drawing to a sudden halt. "The entire Wizengamot? Like they were at my trial?"
"They're all elected councilmen who have a voice on what the Ministry does," Mr. Weasley said tightly, but Harry sensed he understood where his underlying fear was coming from. He gave Harry a faint smile. "Don't worry. They can't force you to do anything. You're merely there as a guest consultant."
Harry was relieved when Hermione and the Minister finally broke away to join the other witches and wizards in plum-colored robes, each bearing an embroidered silver W. It might have seemed like an ordinary day if it were not for the fact that everyone seemed to know exactly what was going on. It was in their eyes, the way they raked over the Wizengamot members as they passed, and the way they whispered to each other. Harry had the sense that for once, he wasn't the source of curiosity, and was exceptionally relieved.
"It's not usually like this," Mr. Weasley explained to them as they made their way past the lift, trying to move through the throng without drawing too much attention to themselves. "But this is an important meeting that could change everything. Naturally, everyone's got a stake in it one way or another."
They made it to the courtroom, and Harry was glad when Mr. Weasley followed him inside this time. He was doubly thankful when he was herded to a seat just below where Hermione and Dumbledore were, and when both Weasleys sat next to him. Mr. Weasley would be here for this. Aside from having Ron here with him, it was the second most comforting thing Harry could have asked for. Hermione would have been second on his list were it not for the fact that she was sitting just three rows away from Dumbledore, and Harry was somewhat nervous about the prospect of them being in such close proximity. The idea of these two very brilliant people with exceedingly different plans was a frightening one. Harry suspected the Ministry didn't know what it was getting into.
He looked around. This courtroom was nothing like Courtroom Ten: the ceiling gave way to a great glass ceiling through which Harry could see clouds passing by, if he craned his head. The room was alright with the glow of torches, but was exceptionally well lit by the bright—if blustery—late-March weather. This was a far more comfortable room to convene on political matters than the dungeon-like levels below.
Scrimgeour had taken his seat, and after a moment of calmly surveying the room, reached for the gavel and banged it twice. The sound echoed like a gunshot, quieting the room within moments. Harry saw Percy Weasley sitting a few feet away, a bit of ink already on his nose from where he was furiously scribbling. There were flutters of parchment and robes as the members of the Wizengamot settled down. Harry glanced around the room, and saw a few vaguely familiar faces that he had never actually spoken to, but recognized them to be the heads of various Ministry departments.
"The purpose of today's convention will be to decide whether the Ministry will change its tactics in dealing with the threat posed by He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, and if so, what those changes will be…"
He felt rather than heard Hermione shift behind him, and then her voice was whispering into his ear: "Remember what I told you earlier, Harry."
"About Voldemort getting too powerful for the Ministry to handle?" Harry whispered in an undertone.
"Yes. And most of them know it."
"And the ones that don't?" Harry asked, wishing Hermione had explained this to him beforehand.
"Last time around, everyone was terrified of the Dark Lord. This time, that terror has been tempered by the Ministry's ability to maintain some stability. That success has led to arrogance."
"We ought to take a more offensive approach," one wizard could be heard saying. Harry's head swiveled around, trying to find the speaker. "Frankly, I don't see the point of capturing Death Eaters if they're going to Azkaban only to be broken out again. I recommend a motion that we execute the Dark Lord's followers—following a fair trial, of course…"
"That's right," another agreed. "The problem is that You-Know-Who's followers keep going back to him."
Harry glanced up at Hermione and then Dumbledore, trying to read their expressions. Dumbledore was sitting calmly and attentively, nodding his head ever so slightly as though to suggest he was listening, though Harry could detect the faintest trace of a frown behind his beard. Hermione was leaning forward in her seat, but her face betrayed nothing. Harry glanced over at Mr. Weasley, who was wearing an expression of deep concern. He wished they could discuss this among themselves privately; he wasn't sure what to make of this motion. It sounded right, but felt wrong.
"Absolutely not," Harry heard another insist. "We made a serious mistake with Sirius Black's trial, and there are a notable number of pardoned Death Eaters who have not returned to the Dark Side. It would be remiss of us to execute upon declaring guilt."
Now Harry wished he had not come. His stomach churned at the memory of how close his godfather had come to being Kissed. He wondered when he was supposed to speak up, or whether he was supposed to say anything at all.
"If you have a better solution, Madam, I would be delighted to hear it," was the biting rejoinder.
Harry was surprised when he heard Hermione get to her feet, and twisted around to look at her.
"Seal them away."
"I beg your pardon?" A snooty-nosed wizard three rows away from them demanded.
"Find another way to lock them up. There's more to magic than just waving a wand," Hermione replied stoically. "Transfigure, or perhaps Transmute them into another object. Once the war's over, you can decide what to do with them."
"It would be a very effective way to remove them without killing them…" Kingsley Shacklebolt's deep voice soothed over the room. "It wouldn't interrupt our justice system. I quite like it."
"All it takes is an expert Alchemist or an experienced Transfiguration master," Hermione continued coolly, but there was a slight quirk to her lips, as though she appreciate Shacklebolt's intervention. "It can be simplified down to a ritual, and requires minimal upkeep. You could lock them in a vault for fifty years and then change them back, and they wouldn't age a day."
"Weasley, have you got that down?" Scrimgeour asked, barely glancing at Percy.
"Yes sir," Percy said, his quill flying across the page.
"Very well. We will set the idea aside for later consideration."
"I still think we should execute them," the wizard who had originally suggested the idea called out. "There's a good chance that it could backfire on us. No one wants to hear that the Ministry mangles its prisoners through botched spells."
"Your contribution is noted," Scrimgeour said coolly.
"As opposed to hearing that you executed the wrong man?" Harry interjected.
There was a moment of tense silence. For a moment, Harry thought Scrimgeour might admonish him for speaking out of turn, but instead got the impression that the Minister was merely scrutinizing him very closely. And then—
"I disagree with execution, but we do need a more offensive approach," an elderly wizard Harry recognized as Tiberius Ogden spoke up. "We're at a stalemate now, but he is gaining in strength."
"I don't know how you plan to go on the offensive more than you already are," Harry responded evenly, emboldened by the lack of chastisement from his previous interjection. "And it's not Voldemort's—" the entire room flinched "—Death Eaters that's the problem, is it? You can handle them. It's Voldemort himself, especially since he's the one who keeps breaking them out. You managed to keep them locked up for over a dozen years once he was gone, so they're clearly not the problem."
"And yet, we are still at a loss as to how to kill him," Madam Marchbanks said, her aged voice more of a murmur than anything else, but it was heard by all. "Have you any ideas, Mr. Potter?"
Harry shook his head, his lips pressed into a thin line.
"Well then," the snooty-nosed wizard said, looking rather satisfied at Harry's lack of answers, "If the Boy-Who-Lived doesn't know how to defeat him, who does?"
Ron made an ugly face at the wizard, but said nothing. Harry glanced up again. This time, Hermione's elbows were braced on her knees, her mouth pressed against interlaced hands. She looked both patient and eager, but seemed to be deliberately gagging herself by biting down on one of her knuckles. Dumbledore looked unruffled, and was even smiling slightly, as though he found the entire meeting politely amusing.
More ideas were thrown about from every corner of the room, from the loftiest seats to the lower rows. There were statements made, most prominently by Department Heads, about matters that Harry couldn't even wrap his mind around. It was very tempting to succumb to boredom after a time, but he struggled to remain attentive. Dumbledore was well-respected, and he spoke often, his words having a calming effect on arguments that exceeded their usefulness. But it was not until Harry himself came up as a subject that Hermione spoke up again.
"He's the Chosen One, is he not?" demanded an elderly Warlock whose name Harry was unfamiliar with. "Why don't we use him?"
"Because Harry or—as you call him, the 'Chosen One'—isn't a tool to be used," Hermione said icily.
"We could set a trap," one of them persisted. "You-Know-Who has attempted to kill him multiple times over the last few years—we could ambush him then. Give Potter a chance to kill him once and for all."
Hermione scoffed—outright scoffed—in his face, and let out a snort of laughter that quite startled the room.
"Madam Snape, if I may enquire as to what you find so amusing," Scrimgeour asked tightly.
"The Ministry doesn't change," Hermione said, and though she was smiling, there was a cold edge to it. Her shoulders were shaking in silent laughter, but it wasn't friendly. "You think you can conquer problems with more decrees, more edicts, more motions. You research the laws of magic in the Department of Mysteries, but you understand so little—and respect even less—that there are some aspects of magic that can't be controlled." She jabbed a finger in Harry's direction. "You can't simply throw Harry at Voldemort," she said, clearly enunciating the name for the room to flinch at, "and expect him to get the job done."
"You tell them, Hermione," Harry heard Ron mutter under his breath.
"The Dark Lord chose him. He is destined—"
"He is destined, but you don't get to determine when that is." Hermione waved a hand around at the room. "No one could have predicted that Harry would stop the Dark Lord the first time around when he was just a baby—and yet, it happened. Let that be a gratuitous example of just how little control you have over abstractions such as destiny."
The wizard opened his mouth to speak, but a loud, reverberating crash drowned out whatever it was he was prepared to say.
"What was that?" Scrimgeour demanded.
"It's from the Atrium!" one of the Aurors guarding the door called, peering down the hall with his wand out. "There's been a commotion!"
Scrimgeour did not even attempt to command calm; he was out of his seat in a flash, though not before Hermione had leapt out of hers, jumping over several seats below to make it for the door. Harry followed close behind, and from the shouting that was overtaking the courtroom, it sounded as though quite a few of the more able members were determined to follow.
Hermione did not tell him to stay behind, when he caught up to her. She skidded to a stop at the end of the corridor, taking in the vision of destruction that awaited them.
The ceiling had been smashed in. Stone and glass debris was still falling to the ground with dull clunks, occasionally bouncing off the wings of a very large and very angry Hebridean Black that Harry was all too familiar with. He had been fitted with a bridle of some sort, though it did nothing to hinder his ability to spew flames at the shocked and terrified witches and wizards who had not made it out of the way in time. The reason for this sartorial addition was astonishingly clear: he had a rider. And it wasn't Voldemort. The wild, black tangle of Bellatrix Lestrange hailed her identity even from behind her silver death-mask.
Instantly, Harry knew to duck just as Charlie's head whipped around and his maw opened in preparation to spew flame. But Hermione didn't duck; she flicked her wand, and a shield rose up, covering the corridor and protecting those behind her from getting caught in the inferno. Harry held his hands up, trying to block the bright light of the flame.
There was a responding snarl, and Harry blinked as he saw the nearest pocket of Hermione's robes wriggle; and then her shield broke, and they all scattered for cover. Harry dodged behind a chunk of debris twice his height, peering over the top to get a good look at Charlie.
So. Voldemort hadn't come. But he had attacked nonetheless. Harry supposed he had decided to delegate the task of terrorizing the Ministry to his most faithful follower. Clearly, there were some days when a Dark Lord couldn't be arsed to do the job himself.
"Crucio!" he heard Bellatrix cry gleefully. "Avada—"
Without waiting for her to finish her spell, which was aimed at the twitching body of a man who had been caught under a chunk of broken ceiling, Harry shoved his hands into his pocket and pulled out the can of Peruvian Darkness Powder from Fred and George's shop, and without a second thought to reconsider his actions, threw it with all the strength and accuracy years of Quidditch had given him.
"—Kedavra—aieee!"
A jet of green light shot out of the unfurling cloud of thick inky blackness, but it struck the ceiling at an angle, sparing her intended target. Bellatrix let out a loud curse, followed by a stream of violent invectives interrupted only by Charlie's panicked roar. Harry quickly slipped out from behind his hiding place, somehow just knowing that with Felix Felicis in his blood, he would get through this foolhardy endeavor alive. A hasty mutter, and the debris lifted off the man; and then Harry grabbed him by the shoulders, and dragged him back toward the safety of the corridor.
"Accio!" The man's body was suddenly dragged forcefully out of Harry's arms, and he saw Ron standing at the mouth of the corridor, face ashen white but set. The man's weight almost knocked him over as he caught him, and Harry wheeled around in time to avoid Charlie's tail from sweeping his feet out from beneath him.
"Charlie!" He shouted, trying to catch the blinded dragon's attention. "Charlie, it's me!" He dodged another swipe. "Stop this!"
There was another earth-shattering roar, and then a burst of flame exploded from within; Harry was thrown backwards, narrowly avoiding the worst of the blast at the last moment, and landed on a piece of jagged stone with a thud that knocked the wind out of him. Harry was very surprised to find that, when the darkness powder had been incinerated, Bellatrix was still sitting atop him entirely unruffled. She glnaced down her nose at Harry from a great height, and Harry had the sense that she was deliberately keeping composure.
She had her wand pointed at him.
"Where's the book?"
There was a soft, rumbling snarl from behind him, but Harry didn't dare glance around to see what it was.
"I don't know what you're talking about," he lied.
"Still a poor liar, Potter," Bellatrix said coldly. "And here I'd been told your Occlumency had improved! I'll not ask a third time—where is the book? Convulsions of Nature?"
Harry swallowed and opened his mouth to speak, but was saved from answering by Hermione.
"There was no need for such theatrics, Bellatrix."
Bellatrix's gaze snapped from Harry to Hermione, and there was a flash of something eager and predatory in her gaze. And to Harry's surprise, which accompanied a sinking feeling in his gut, Hermione wore a similar expression; it made her look ever so slightly mad. But then it was gone from the latter; Bellatrix still seemed like she might strike at any moment with antsy impatience, and Hermione appeared impracticably calm. And then Harry realized what was wrong.
Dumbledore—where was Dumbledore?
And as though she had read his mind, Hermione answered, though rather indirectly.
"Very clever, to crash the Ministry in two places." Her hand shifted to her left pocket, though her wand was still held firmly in the right. "How many death eaters did you bring? Ten? Twelve?"
"Thirteen," Bellatrix breathed. "Including me."
Charlie's head whipped around with a wild snort that shot flame, and then let out a serpentine hiss of pain as the iron chains of the bridle glowed bright red; he quieted a moment later, though his eyes blinked a thousand words, slow and dark and still incomprensible to Harry. And then Harry saw something red and scaly coiling out of Hermione's pocket, wrapping around her arm and slowly lifting itself out. Smoke trailed out of her pocket. And the only thing he could think of—the only thing that made sense, and which Felix assured him was more than just a lucky guess—was that she had a dragon in there.
"I knew you were after the book the minute Draco failed in his clumsy attempt to steal it," Hermione said quietly. And then Harry saw the cover of the book, and then the flipping pages, and something dark and beady-eyed gazing out from between the snow-white parchment bound within. "Naturally, I've carried it around with me ever since. I suppose it was a futile hope that it would discourage you."
Harry wondered why Hermione wasn't attacking. She had Bellatrix's attention focused solely on the slowly unraveling book, and her spells would hardly bother Charlie any more than the touch of a fly. And then he saw the black chains digging tightly into her sides, blending into her robes, and he came to the realization: against all odds, somehow, Bellatrix had gotten the drop on her.
"There are many things that the Dark Lord wants," Bellatrix said, and there was a mocking coo to her voice. "You are hardly the foremost thing standing in his way. Accio book!"
The book sailed out of Hermione's pocket, its claws, tail, and tongue writhing in the air to try and find some sort of foothold; it snapped into the Death Eater's hands with a smack of finality.
"And now—"
The book, which was already agitated enough, suddenly stopped moving; instead, it began to glow red, and Bellatrix dropped it with a shriek of surprise—and pain—as it burned. For a moment, Harry thought that was the extent of its self-defense, but then ink exploded off the pages in long, black strands that wrapped around all within reach. It pinned the death eater in place on Charlie's back, it snapped a coil around Hermione's waist and wrist, and a long tendril appeared around Harry's neck and began dragging him forward with a strangled grunt.
"What's happening?" Bellatrix shrieked. "What is it doing?!"
Harry saw Hermione's eyes widened, and her mouth opened and shut inaudibly; she was speechless. The book was now wrapping itself around Charlie's body, and the black ink was slowly turning gold. Lines were being drawn along Charlie's black scales, lines that Harry could only vaguely make out as being similar to the ones he had seen on Hermione's chalkboards—runes and circles that meant absolutely nothing to him, but clearly meant a great deal to the book. It was using Charlie as a canvas, though what it was trying to accomplish, Harry didn't know.
And then the dragon's entire body began to glow; a backlash of magic that caused the coil around his neck to disappear and for him to be thrown back, and another scream—this time of rage and fear—from Bellatrix as she, too, was released from the book's hold. His glasses flew off. And then the spots in Harry's vision cleared, and he squinted as he took in the sight before him.
Charlie was gone. So was the book. In their place was an enormous dragon with blood-red scales and gold accents. It was Charlie's size, and for all intents and purposes, it looked like Charlie had been done over in Gryffindor colors—but when the dragon's head slowly turned to look at him, Harry instantly knew it was not Charlie. It was not his dragon, the playful and mischievously dangerous creature that had been his Care of Magical Creatures project. Convulsions of Nature had created for itself a new body, against all odds, and given itself a new life. It was unlike any other dragon Harry had seen—it was clearly more than a primitive or even half-trained beast, but a creature wise beyond comprehension.
Hermione lay on the ground, unmoving; for a moment Harry thought she might be in shock. And then she slowly pushed herself up, and turned around to look. The dragon's face was less than a foot away from hers, and even Bellatrix seemed to be frozen in awe at the sight of those two—the dragon bearing down upon the witch who had kept it and cared for it in book-forme for so many years, the witch gazing back at him without a trace of fear on her face. And then a fissure in its head opened, revealing a third beady black eye; it blinked at her, very slowly. Hermione's face could be seen reflected in it, awed but unafraid. And determined.
She reached out a trembling hand, and placed it on the tip of the dragon's fearsome nose. Black seeped out from beneath its scales, and morphed into gold as it wrapped around her wrist. Gold ink now ran across its scales, a dense and incomprehensible scrawl of runes and lines that slithered to the floor and ran outwards before closing off into a circle, trapping all three of them—Hermione, the Book, and Bellatrix—inside.
"What is it? What is it doing?" Bellatrix shrieked, as the ink began to twine itself more thoroughly around her body, trapping her in place.
Hermione slowly turned to look at her, and Harry was shocked to see that her eyes were the same shade of oblique black as the dragon.
"I thank you for this opportunity," she said, eyes glittering with cruel amusement that was tinged with fury. "I shall endeavor to make the most of it."
And the final piece sunk in. Somehow, Harry understood exactly what the book-turned-dragon was doing. Hermione had described her ritual to him, something to separate the Dark Lord's fractured soul from his. The lines created by the dragon's golden font of ink bore such a resemblance that he could only assume it was a similar—if not identical—ritual it was setting up to perform. The only last piece it needed… was himself.
He was on his feet before he knew it, Felix Felicis driving him forward as he put himself between the dragon and Hermione. Coils circled around at his feet, but did not latch on. The dragon reared its head, and its scarlet tail lashed from side to side as more ink poured out of the sides of its mouth, pooling on the ground.
The sudden flash of green light that surrounded Bellatrix's struggling form and the dragon's maw startled Harry so badly that he almost jerked himself free of the circle; and then he saw her slump, and the lines began to glow with energy that he had only scant moments to appreciate before his vision was roughly yanked from him. He felt his feet give way from underneath him, and he was having difficulty breathing; it felt like something was coiling inside him, grabbing onto him and tearing him in half. He let out a scream, though whether it was all in his head, he could not be certain.
And then his eyes flew open, and he was lying on the ground, gasping for breath. He lifted up his head, and realized his nose had broken in the fall; he wiped the blood off his sleeve, panting as he tried to make sense of what happened. He felt no different, save for the fact that some deep, unreachable part of his chest was in pain. And then a long, red tail whipped into view, and he gazed at it dumbly for a moment before deciding to reach out and grab it. It lifted him up, and he staggered to his feet, dizzy and breathless and trying to make sense of a world that was blurry and unfocused.
And then his glasses were generously slid back onto his face for him, and his vision cleared enough to realize the dragon had picked it up with its long, serpentine tongue. Something rolled out from the side and spun around a few times before falling still, and he realized it was Gaunt's Ring. The tongue flickered over his nose, and the dragon flicked off a trail of blood with it, as though testing the taste. And then it dipped down, sliding its thin tongue through the ring, and Harry gazed unseeingly as it swallowed the ancient and thoroughly-ruined heirloom. And then it raised its enormous wings, and with a gust of wind and a triumphant roar, thrust itself upwards into the air. Harry felt his knees give way, and felt hands appear on his shoulder to keep him upright as he watched the revived and legendary creature disappear through the broken ceiling. It was done with them. Things had gone so far afield from what they had even dreamed might happen that day, but it was finally over.
"Harry—Harry!"
"I—I'm fine," Harry responded thickly, as Ron urged him to his feet. He spat out a bit of blood that had trickled into his mouth, and reached for his wand to repair his nose. He staggered, and then bent down to pick up Gaunt's Ring, pocketing it before it could get lost in the debris. "Where's Hermione?"
"Over there." Ron turned Harry around, and he saw her lying where the dragon had left her. He knew she wasn't dead. Panic and fear hadn't settled in yet, and his potion was reassuring him that all the signs pointed to her still being alive and merely out cold. "That was… I don't even know what that was."
"I didn't see everything that happened," Harry said, as he came to kneel beside his bushy-haired friend.
"The dragon killed Bellatrix. Ate her, too," Ron said, gesturing at the spot where Harry had last seen her. "And I think—I think he possessed Hermione, her eyes weren't looking right at the end."
"That's what it looked like," Harry said shortly, as he grabbed Hermione's arm and hooked it over his shoulder. Ron came around to do the same on the other side, and they hauled her up. He wasn't ready to tell Ron that he thought the dragon might have ripped the piece of Voldemort's soul out of him. Part of him felt like someone had removed a leech off his body by forcefully tearing it off and leaving ripped and torn skin behind. He felt unwell, though not as though he might never heal.
As they dragged Hermione's unconscious form back to the corridor, where several people were receiving medical attention and already coming out to peer around nervously and survey the damage done, Ron remarked:
"That was a bloody terrifying book."
~o~O~o~
"I don't know what to make of it," Hermione whispered, after they had made it back to the Burrow. Scrimgeour had wanted to send her to St. Mungo's, but she had adamantly refused, and he had more important things to attend to than argue with a stubborn retainer. He was one of the few people who had witnessed what happened in full, though Harry was immensely grateful that he'd had the common sense to not interfere when it became clear that the events unfolding were beyond normal comprehension.
The man Harry and Ron had saved survived, though the courtroom—which had been crashed in nearly five minutes after the atrium, and by a dozen Death Eaters—had left behind more bodies than people wanted to count. The Ministry, which had suspected Voldemort might attack, had been utterly unprepared for something of this magnitude. They had anticipated the Dark Lord himself, but not a dragon who, by virtue of being resistant to magic, was able to ignore their wards and protections and simply barrel its way in. The other Death Eaters had capitalized upon the opening to get to the courtroom they had all been assembled in earlier.
"I knew the book was alive, but I'd never thought…" she trailed off for a moment, and then resumed her line of thought. "It never occurred to me that given close… proximity… to another dragon, it might take that dragon over. As a host."
"So the book was a horcrux for a dragon?" Ron asked impatiently.
"No. The book was whole," Hermione muttered. Her eyes were closed and she was resting on one of the beds upstairs, but that was hardly enough to induce her mind into taking a rest. "It was a whole dragon—mind and soul—bound in another object. All it needed was a body." She gave it a moment's consideration. "It was probably one of Herpo the Foul's lesser-known earlier experiments. Before he became infamous for creating the first known horcux."
"That was not a normal dragon," Harry said. He was sitting forward in his chair, hands crossed and nibbling on some bacon slices. His nose had been repaired and pronounced fixed, and was probably the worst of his physical injuries. "Charlie's the most intelligent dragon I've ever encountered, but he certainly couldn't manipulate magic like that. Not in a hundred years."
"Magical creatures have long appeared in fairy-tales to guide and challenge wizards and witches," Hermione murmured. "Some become… unusually powerful when exposed to unusual circumstances."
"Like being turned into a book, you mean?" Ron joked lightly.
"The dragon's identity was reduced to mere knowledge and memories," Hermione said quietly. "The usual inhibitions of instincts and desires probably faded over the centuries, leaving behind an extremely cunning and intelligent creature."
"And what, this medieval git tracked them down and shoved their souls into books?" Ron scoffed.
"That's what he told me," Hermione answered quietly.
Neither of them needed to ask how or why. They already knew that the dragon had taken over her body, if only for a short while—and not only that, but that Hermione had willingly allowed it. The dragon had paid a price for her cooperation: a shared consciousness meant shared knowledge.
"So now that this book's gone and gotten itself a new body, Voldemort's going to try and find one of the others, right?" Ron asked.
"It's a possibility," Hermione said, sounding very tired at the prospect. "But I haven't any idea where they are, and I doubt he does either. This book was within his grasp because he knew where it was. The others…" she trailed off.
"I get why it ate Bellatrix," Harry said. "You said it killed her to trigger the ritual. The ritual absorbed her life-force to power itself up, and he wasn't going to waste a perfectly good meal. But why didn't he eat you?"
Hermione didn't respond for a long moment, and Harry almost thought she had fallen asleep. Her face looked rather worn, not by age, but from a lifetime of hard fighting. And then her eyes slowly opened, chocolate brown and thoughtful.
"The book used her to activate the ritual," she said finally, not answering the question Harry had just asked. "But I had the Philosopher's Stone stored inside Charlie, and it's probably been reduced to dust by now. I have little doubt that a transformation of that magnitude would deplete it." A pause, and then she addressed Harry's query:
"I had that book for almost a decade," she said quietly, though there was a hint of self-deprecating smile about her lips. "And you know me. I take very good care of my books."
And then her eyes closed.
"Do one more thing for me, Harry…"
"What?"
There was a moment's pause.
"Can you feel the Dark Lord?" Hermione whispered. "Is the link still there?"
There was a pause as Harry did a moment of soul-searching. Yes, the edges felt frayed and torn, but they would close up. The part of him that had always felt heavy and dark was missing. It was with relief that he was finally able to reply with a firm and final, "No."
Hermione smiled.
"Not as neat and clean as I wanted it to be, but I shan't look a gift dragon in the mouth," she said, sounding rather satisfied.
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-Anubis Ankh