A/N: Hi all, sorry for the long gaps between posting, and the lack of response to reviews & such...I've got a lot on my plate right now and I'm doing my best to keep up with it all and keep going with the story. It's turning out to be much longer than I expected...Thanks for sticking with it and I hope you're all still enjoying it! As always, I appreciate your feedback and your continued interest!


CHAPTER XVI

The Sacrifice

[Hogwarts | November 1995]


Ron Weasley doesn't want to talk about what just happened in the Forbidden Forest. But Hermione Granger's seated on the couch in front of the fire, reading of course, when Ron creeps into the common room, trying not to draw any attention to himself. She whirls around, hair a tornado of amber curls, to fix her gaze on him.

"Where do you think you're going?" She inquires, shocked that he thought even for a minute that he could get away without telling her anything.

"Don't feel so good. Gonna go lie down..." Ron says weakly. Hermione leaps from the couch and rushes over to him.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing. Just..." But before he can get out the rest of his poorly constructed excuse, she notices the conspicuous wound on his left hand, which he's trying to hide from view.

"Oh my...Ron...What happened?" She grabs his arm, bringing the injured hand into full view, a gaping slash across his palm.

"She took me to the Forbidden Forest." Ron admits, a twinge of shame coloring his demeanor. "To this cave..."

"She did this to you?" Hermione gasps. "You have to tell Dumbledore!"

"No. I can't." He says.

"And why not?"

"It's complicated." Ron sighs. "From what she explained...well she didn't explain much actually...but it seems as though this key..."

"Key?"

"In the box. There was a key. To open the thing she had to bring it below ground, into the cave, and give it an...offering..."

"Ron that sounds like dark magic!" Hermione's getting upset now.

"But it seems as though this key is really important..." Ron says. Is he defending her?

"Ron! Have you completely lost it? You remember what happened to Harry last year, don't you? This is bad. We have to tell Dumbledore."

"You go tell him then. I'm going to bed."

"Ron! Wait!"

"Hermione? What's all the yelling about?" Harry walks through the portrait hole.

"There's something seriously wrong with him." Hermione says in a huff, pointing at where Ron just disappeared up the stairs to the boy's dormitory. "Come on, we've got to do something."


"Alohamora." Hermione whispers, pointing her wand at the lock on the door to Professor Spektor's office.

"Remind me again why we're breaking into her office if we're concerned she's done something awful to Ron..." Harry says skeptically.

"Because. Oh, don't be so thick Harry, that's Ron's job." Hermione says under her breath. "I don't understand why Dumbledore trusts her, but I've got a bad feeling about all of this. She's hiding something...something big..." Hermione pushes the door slowly, and the two students creep into the small, dark room. Harry lights the tip of his wand to illuminate the space. The desk is piled with books, an empty ink bottle is overturned—the source of the deep black stain on the desktop, a silver blood-stained dagger laying across one of the open tomes. The bed in the corner is neatly made, an empty bottle of firewhisky is on the floor next to it. Harry goes to check under the bed.

"So what are we looking for, exactly?" He coughs a bit. It's very dusty in there.

"Oooo what's that?" She squeaks, tiny feet skittering over to the bed, a corner of something sticking out from under the mattress catching her eye. She lifts up the mattress and unfolds it. It's two photographs, faded and torn in places. The first photograph is of a gnarled tree by a river snaking beneath a stone bridge. A shadowed figure stands beside the tree, waving its hands frantically, but the photograph is too out-of-focus to show who the person is. She hands it to Harry to examine while she checks out the next one. It's not as old, but still as beat-up. The person in this photograph is clearly visible this time. It's a young Professor Spektor, very young actually—about 17 or 18. Definitely pre-Azkaban. She's sitting in a withered garden, moonlight illuminating her pale skin, with a significantly creepy, all-tooth grin on her face. In her hand she's holding something.

"What's that do you think?" Hermione asks Harry, pointing to the item in Professor Spektor's hand. The figure in the picture laughs, her body whole body shaking.

"Umm..." Harry squints. "That's the ring isn't it? The one she wears?"

"You've got good eyes." A voice just behind Harry makes him tense up. The two students look up into the much-older version of the face of the woman in the picture. Where the hell did she come from? And without a sound?

"My...mother's..." Harry mumbles.

"Surely. Oh to be young again..." She says, taking the photograph from Harry. It is the same ring. It's on the middle finger of her right hand right now, glinting in the light still issuing from the tip of Harry's wand.

"Who...uh...gave you that, Professor?" Harry asks. He's not really sure why he's asking, but he has a feeling it matters somehow, since someone bothered to take a picture of her holding it. She slips off the ring, holding it in the palm of her hand, much like in the photograph, and offers it to Harry. As soon as he touches it he feels a jolt of pain shoot through his scar, and lets it fall back into her hands. He thinks he sees some movement in the black stone, but maybe that's just the poor lighting.

"What are you looking for?" She asks, replacing the ring on her finger and crossing her arms, looking directly at Hermione now.

"What did you do to Ron?" Hermione demands.

"He was helping me with that box." Professor Spektor shrugs casually. "It was more difficult to open than I expected. A sacrifice was necessary..."

"A sacrifice?" Harry's eyes grow wide. A brief flashback to the graveyard, to Cedric, lying cold on the ground, to Wormtail and the circle of death eaters...

"He'll be fine." She says. Harry and Hermione take a step back. "I wouldn't worry if I were you."

"You're working for...you-know-who...aren't you?" Harry says.

"I've never worked for anyone, boy." Professor Spektor says angrily. "Although I'm sure you'd like to think that, wouldn't you? He would too, I'm sure."

"So that's the key then?" Harry notices for the first time the slim brass key she's wearing around her neck. "What's so special about it, then?"

"It's the key to my freedom." She says, her smile cold, joyless.

"But you are free. Dumbledore..." Hermione starts.

"Dumbledore's got an agenda...which I suggest you two become savvy to because you factor in quite heavily. You are about to learn one of the most important lessons anyone could teach you—how to be aware you're being used."

"But I'm the chosen one!" Harry says. Professor Spektor abruptly erupts in laughter.

"Right you are, Harry Potter. Right you are."

"If you think you're going to convince me that Dumbledore's the bad one here and you-know-who is..."

"So attached to this notion of good vs. evil...Dumbledore's got you trained, alright. But let me tell you a secret. There is no evil, Harry." She says, raising a finger to her lips to prompt him to lower his voice. "You think you're the good guy, huh? But when there are two sides, how can either be the 'good' side? 'Good' to who? Who are you really serving, Harry? Yourself, or Albus Dumbledore?" Harry stares back at her. He has thought about this. Deep down he's felt a stirring within him, something unsettling, something dark and angry, struggling to surface.

"Albus Dumbledore is a good man." He says forcefully.

"Well then." Professor Spektor says. "Just know what happens when you make assumptions..." She snatches the other photograph from his hand. "I also have my mother's eyes." She says, pointing at the shadowy figure, who is still shaking her hands back and forth. "She's giving you a warning." Professor Spektor folds the picture in half and puts it in her pocket. "That you two should mind your own business." She then walks to the door, opens it, and extends her arm to usher them through. As soon as they're out she shuts the door firmly behind them without another word.


Severus Snape is standing in a dark room—the only light, a fire crackling in the hearth, it's bright heat battling against the damp cold of the old house. Wind whistles through the walls, something thuds in the distance, a rafter collapsing in the attic perhaps. A man is seated in a wing-back armchair, dressed in black, his grey skin corpse-like in the glow of the flames.

"So she knows now, does she?" The man says, his voice high and thin, like ice.

"Yes, my lord. I'm sorry, it just...slipped out...I had no idea she didn't know..."

"And what did I tell you about talking to her?"

"You said not to."

"Yet you defied me. Is it that you don't think I have good reason for giving you such an instruction?"

"No sir, it's just...I work with her..."

"Severus, I've put my trust in you. Was it foolish foolish of me to do so?"

"No—you can trust me. I'll be more careful. It's just...there's this thing about her..."

"You think I'm...unaware...of her effect?"

"No, of course not..."

"Then that's settled. You are treading on thin ice, Severus. Stray too close to her and it just...might...crack..."

"Right, my lord. Understood. I should get going then." Snape says, backing out of the room. The man in the chair sits very still, listening to Severus' retreating footsteps, waiting for the creak and slam of the door.

And then he's alone. The fire's got his full attention, the tongues lapping greedily at the grate, their own little prison in his own little room. He pulls a faded photograph out of his pocket and gazes upon the figure kneeling at the feet of a stone angel, face glowing in the moonlight, his old flame, whose warmth dwindled but never her brightness. Would he have preferred for her to remain locked up in Azkaban? Perhaps it would have been better—she was easier to forget about at least. And there was always the possibility that he could, eventually, once everything was in order, retrieve her... But there's no chance of that now, he thinks, because she already knows he betrayed her. This is going to be tricky. He weaves his fingers together, resting his chin upon them, thinking deeply of all the possibilities. He then settles on a tentative plan: either she joins him, or she dies.