Okay.....I've got to say, I wrote the majority of this part while listening to SNL skits, which, needless to say, fits the story not at all. I blame any blatant screwiness on 'Famous Titties for 500'. (Damn Sean Connery....) For those of you who have absolutely no idea what I'm talking about and just want to get on with the fic--by all means, do so. I must say from the start that this part didn't turn out half so cool and battle-ish as I'd at first hoped--it seems I'm utterly incapable of writing serious HP fiction, more's the pity. So, en lieu of the fantastic bit of sword and sorcery you were supposed to receive in this installment, I give you...this. I hope it's not too disappointing, but if it is--well, go kill the producers of Saturday Night Live; it's entirely the fault of they and their Celebrity Jeopardy skits. ^_^

Victory at a Price

When Harry came to himself, he was literally by himself. He groaned slightly, coming back to reality with the unwilling grogginess of one who knows he would be better off conked out. For a moment he wondered what he was doing lying on the floor, until his mind reoriented itself and made him sit up in alarm, only to clap a hand to his head and issue a hissed expletive.

"This just keeps getting better and better," he muttered, wincing as he fingered the back of his head. His stomach was churning and his legs felt like jelly, and there was a faint ringing in his ears that could only have come from cracking his head so hard. He knew quite well his legs would only dump him right back to the floor if he tried to stand, and so he lay where he was and cautiously took in his surroundings.

He didn't know how long he'd been out, but everything around him was blacker than pitch. The only light came from the now noticeably thinner smoke, which seemed to glow faintly, and whatever dim rays managed to filter through the cloudy ceiling. A moment's reflection told him it was probably a good thing he couldn't just jump up and start yelling for anyone--Lord knew what that would bring swooping down on him. The silence was smothering, and for one awful moment he feared he'd slept right through the battle--if he had, his side had most certainly lost.

He sat up cautiously, feeling blindly for his glasses and praying they weren't broken. Perching them on his nose, he turned his aching head and looked for some break in the blackness. Scarcely had he done so than he caught his breath and wished he hadn't.

At the far end of the Hall, near the smashed remains of the arbor, stood what had to be the most enormous cauldron Harry had ever seen, suspended over a sickly green fire that lit the walls with a cold, shivery light. Dim though it was it made Harry squint, shooting bolts of pain through his skull. He sat where he was, not daring to move and hardly daring to breathe, until there came a sudden movement and he nearly jumped out of his skin.

"Wormtail?" he whispered, disbelieving.

Wormtail it was, the man once known as Peter Pettigrew, though his appearance was so vastly different from Harry's last memory of him it was a wonder he'd recognized the man at all. His hair was as lank and pale as ever, and he still twitched occasionally, but he no longer cringed as though in constant fear of a blow, and there was a purposefulness to his movements that made Harry's blood run cold. Worse than all that, however, were the arms.

Pettigrew had been lacking his upper limbs for the better part of two years, ever since Hermione's infamously botched disarming spell, but he certainly wasn't now--long, oddly fluid hands were adding a thick red liquid to the cauldron, stirring it in with a great metal ladle. There was something wrong about them, and as Harry squinted he realized they were made of some strange, silvery-looking metal that glinted unpleasantly in the icy light.

He finished adding his ingredients, grinning somewhat nastily, and Harry felt his stomach knot itself into a hopeless tangle as the little man seized a torch from the wall and lit it in the flames--the last thing in the world he needed was for Pettigrew to spot him and decide to toss him into the brew as well. A moment later, however, all his fears for himself were forgotten.

Pettigrew turned, holding his brand aloft, and their shaking luminescence revealed that he was by no means alone. Harry caught his breath, fighting an incredible urge to vomit, and shaking with helplessness he watched as Wormtail approached the limp, shackled form of a man who could only be Lupin.

"So," he whispered, his voice echoing in the deathly stillness of the Hall, and Harry saw Lupin raise his head. "You thought you could ignore the summons, did you? Thought that finding a way to suppress it could change what you are?"

Lupin stared steadfastly at Pettigrew, and even from this distance Harry could see that he was in a considerable amount of pain. He said nothing, but Pettigrew evidently found the eerie yellow of his eyes unsettling enough, for he broke off his gaze and started pacing.

"Remus, whether you like it or not you are our Master's servant, and as such you must know the consequences for refusing a summons," he said, his voice cold and slightly amused. He faced Lupin once more, holding his torch uncomfortably close to the other man's face. "Master has no use for those who will not bow to him. I suggest you consider this, while you still have time."

Lupin drew a breath, still gazing unblinkingly at him. "And which master would that be, Peter?" he asked quietly, his voice as calm and mild as ever. "I was under the impression that you served Lord Voldemort, but he has apparently been usurped by a Lord of his own."

Pettigrew's expression changed, making him look much more like the panicked little rat-man Harry was used to. His eyes widened, and when he spoke his voice came out in his old terrified squeak. "Don't--don't you dare bring him into this!" he all but cheeped, his pasty face going paler. His eyes darted from side to side, as though afraid the walls had ears (which, at this point, wouldn't have surprised Harry one bit.) "Lord--" he seemed to have some trouble with the word "--Slytherin has taken no active part in this, and we all want it to stay that way." Pettigrew drew himself up, puffing out his chest importantly and trying unsuccessfully to mask his fear. "He has entrusted Master and I to ensure that this school is cleansed."

He obviously expected Lupin to respond to this, but the latter did not; he merely stared with an inscrutable yellow-eyed placidity that seemed to knock all the wind out of Pettigrew's sails. Harry didn't blame him--the thought of staring a hungry, untransformed werewolf in the eye wasn't exactly a nice one, to say the least.

Pettigrew fidgeted for a moment, his face showing that he was in the throws of thinking up something waspishly grand and evil, but three minutes of this action failed to produce anything more than a few incoherent squeaks, and in the end he just scuttled off into the shadows again.

Harry breathed a sigh of relief--he was still in an extremely nasty fix, but somehow it seemed far less horrible with Pettigrew out of sight. He had absolutely no idea what he was going to do, but he had an unpleasant feeling that if anyone was going to undo this mess, it was going to have to be him.

Slowly he drew the Neverstone from his pocket, praying it wasn't going to flare like some rainbow sun and give him away. The orb apparently understood the situation, for it remained blacker than obsidian save for a tiny spark at its very center. Harry's sweaty hands nearly dropped it, but the stone was cool against his skin, and the sight of that pinprick of light was enough to calm the pounding of his heart a little. The nasty, fluttery feeling in his stomach seemed to abate as well, as though the orb were drawing his panic out through his fingertips.

He drew a deep breath, trying to collect his thoughts into something at least halfway cohesive. He still didn't have the faintest idea how he was supposed to communicate with this thing, but the feeling of it in his trembling hands was enough to tell him that the stone held more power beneath its smooth black surface than that of every witch and wizard here combined. The thought of wielding it should have been enough to knock him over like a tenpin, but Harry felt oddly...calm. He flicked his sweaty hair from his eyes--it was damp and sticky, though with just what, he didn't want to know--and bent his head until the tip of his nose was nearly touching the stone.

"Can you.....can you help me?" he whispered, his voice cracked and hoarse in the darkness. He didn't expect any response, and so nearly dropped the orb in shock when a small, extremely mischievous voice started giggling inside his head.

-Aye, o' course I can, little one.-

Harry choked, the Neverstone slipping in his grasp. The unexpected appearance of this Voice was startling enough, but more disturbing still was the fact that it seemed to be issuing from within his own head. It had a peculiarly beautiful timbre, and the simple sentence seemed to rise and fall with the sonorous cadence of the wind. It reminded him of Doors's voice, though this one seemed somehow....truer, in some way Harry couldn't understand.

-Ah, now, don't be afraid- The intonation was that of a child, with the same peculiar, traceless accent as his aunt's, but this one held infinitely more power than Lorna's. Harry, for some unfathomable reason, felt that this voice belonged to a creature far older than anything any of his enemies could imagine.

"I--I'm not," he stuttered, his voice scarcely audible.

-Sure you are--hell, in a situation like yours you'd have to be starkers not to be. But don't worry, I won't let anybody get you.-

As the voice spoke, the faint spark of light within the Neverstone slowly grew and swirled, its pattern far more intricate than Harry had ever seen it. The colors seemed to flash with an almost metallic light, so varied and multifarious in their tumbling that he was unable to draw his eyes away from it.

"It's not me I'm afraid for," he whispered, feeling vaguely that he really ought to be paying attention to the rest of his surroundings. "It's everyone else--Slytherin and Voldemort're sure to have gotten them by now, I know they've got Lupin, and Sirius said--"

-Ah, now- The voice cut him off. -You're a thoughtful soul, sure. Well, don't you worry about your friends--you and I are gonna have some fun saving them. Never you mind what Sirius said; he's mortal, and therefore completely stupid.-

This last puzzled Harry, but he didn't get a chance to press it. Dimly he heard a scuffling near the far end of the Hall, and a bolt of panic shot through him at the thought of what horror Pettigrew had likely cooked up for Lupin. He tore his eyes away from the orb and glanced into the darkness--

--and found himself staring not at Pettigrew, but at Voldemort.

The Dark Lord stood beside the large cauldron, his red eyes glinting unpleasantly as he waved a skeletal hand through the sickly green steam. So malicious was the smile on his chalky face that Harry's scar ought to have been screaming at him, until he remembered with a start that it was not Voldemort but Salazar Slytherin standing across the room. A prospect that was about forty times worse.

For a moment Harry froze in horror, his stomach dropping to his toes and his heart leaping into his mouth, but the orb in his hands flared warmer and swiftly called him back to earth.

-Aye, he's an ugly one, all right, but we'll take care of him. Now, Harry, you're going to have to listen to me very carefully, if we're actually going to get this right the first time.-

The Voice in Harry's head proceeded to whisper instructions to him, and Harry, still numbed by his own terror, followed them blindly. He was scarcely aware of what he was doing, as he chanted words he did not understand under his breath, but when he raised his eyes from the Neverstone several minutes later they flared as brilliant and green as his aunt's, and a strange, lovely, half-crazed enchantment coursed through his veins.

His vision was wholly consumed by the swirling incandescence within the orb, but his ears suddenly became aware of another voice, a voice so softly sibilant and mind-numbingly evil that it seemed to fairly freeze the stones in the floor. It pierced his ears like a dart of poisoned ice, circling round him in an almost palpable shroud of hypnotic malevolence, and for a moment Harry felt his blood still as it hissed at him.

"Well, Potter. What sort of toy is it you've found?"

Harry knew without looking up who it was--he could feel merciless red eyes boring into him, the eyes of Voldemort alight with the mind and terrible, impious humor of Salazar Slytherin. He felt vaguely that he ought to be terrified, and somewhere within him a faint alarm was going off, but far more pressing than the impending assault of the Dark Lord was the wonderful, almost incomprehensible power that was coursing through him like quicksilver. He could still hear the Voice of the Neverstone inside his head, whispering a language he had never heard yet fully understood, and while its lyrical lilt rose and fell within his skull he looked up.

His emerald eyes met the demonic red gaze of his new nemesis, flashing an unnatural radiance. Terrible indeed was the visage that floated in the darkness before him--face of Voldemort, paper-white and drawn, with all the ancient evil of the wicked Hogwarts founder staring out through its slitted eyes. Held in a long, skeletal hand was a wand of ebony, its tip glowing faintly with the pale green light of the Killing Curse. As Harry gazed motionless from his place on the floor a cold, cruel smirk crept across the pallid face, twisting Slytherin's countenance into a grotesque parody of mirth.

"Harry Potter," he whispered, his voice soft in the darkness, soft and lined with a velvet menace. "My servant Voldemort told me of you. He said that his powers and eventually his life were forfeited to your bizarre luck, and if in his return to this earth he could do but one thing, it would be to watch you die." Slytherin's other hand, pale and spidery in the gloom, swept around the darkened walls. "He has been faithful to me, and so I shall grant him what he desires so badly. But first, I think you must watch the...education...of your fellow evil-fighting cohorts."

He flicked his wand, sending a thin thread of green light snaking past the dim forms on the walls beyond, and in its faint glow one could make out the features of half of Hogwarts, shackled half-conscious to the walls. Had Harry seen them he would likely have sat frozen in horror and let the entire thing fall to pieces, but most fortunately for everyone he did not.

Harry's eyes stayed trained on Slytherin's twisted face, his heart pounding with a combination of exhilaration and terror, and as his fingers tightened on the smooth orb he did the only thing he was capable of. Harry started laughing.

It was as though someone had flicked on a light switch inside his head. His friends were chained to the walls all around him, a horde of zombies was likely tearing down the outside of the school, and Salazar Slytherin was staring at him with the gaze of a demonic hawk, but at the thought of what the stone in his hands could (and likely would) do to them was just too much--vision after vision chased itself through his brain, and all he could do was cackle like a lunatic.

How long he would have remained thus, he didn't know--most fortunately, the Voice of the Neverstone managed to override his temporary madness before Slytherin grew fed up and smashed his head in.

-Are you off your onion? GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE, IDIOT!-

And Harry, without the slightest change of expression, leaped to his feet and bolted for dear life.

The blackness swirled around him as he ran, stumbling over the rubble and his own feet, and the light of the Neverstone did little save make him even more blind. He had a suspicion that the stone was playing with him as much as everyone else, and if he wasn't careful it was liable to destroy him along with the rest of the throng.

He heard no footfalls in the rubble behind him, something which worried him considerably--if Slytherin wasn't chasing after him, it meant he was likely thinking up some extremely nasty curse to hurl.

"What do I do now?" he wondered desperately, weaving back and forth as he ran in hope of avoiding the wrath of Slytherin's wand. Playing with the Neverstone was all well and good when he was sitting up in Trelawney's classroom, but being trapped in a room with a load of people trying to kill him was another story entirely.

Quite suddenly, a hand shot out of the blackness and seized his collar. Harry fought back a cry as he was pulled next to the wall, but a moment later Sirius's voice hissed to him, fearful and worried.

"Harry," he whispered hoarsely. "Thank God you're all right." His hands found his godson's shoulders, and Harry saw his eyes glint in the light of the Neverstone.

"Harry, listen to me," he whispered, cutting off the questions that rose in Harry's throat. "You have to take that thing and throw it in the cauldron. No, don't look at me like that, I mean it--you have to put the Stone in that poison over there or it'll kill us all. The second the Neverstone touches that potion, Slytherin and all his...creations...will be destroyed."

Somewhere to Harry's left the rubble shifted, and he flinched. "Why?" he heard himself asking.

"If Slytherin completes the potion, it will cement he and his army in their corporeal forms--the zombies won't be zombies any more." Sirius's voice cracked, his fingers trembling.

Harry shivered, but Sirius shook his shoulders. "Come on, Harry," he whispered. "Let's get this over with while we still have a chance."

The two of them started blindly into the darkness, the light of the Neverstone dimming as if to keep them unseen. Its Voice was silent--obviously it knew of the fate that awaited it, but Harry would just as soon have had it silent anyway.

He stumbled sideways on some invisible wreckage, cursing, but no sooner had he steadied himself than there came a blinding flash of light, and suddenly many things happened at once.

The ground beneath Harry's feet pitched sideways, knocking him to the floor and cracking his already aching head. He stifled a cry at the bolt of agony that shot through his temples, but a moment later his pain was forgotten as he caught sight of something far more serious.

The Neverstone flared suddenly brighter in his hands, and Harry found himself confronted with one of the worst tableaux he had ever seen--Salazar Slytherin, tall, black-robed, and menacing, locked in a furious struggle with his godfather, who was trying desperately to keep Slytherin's wand pointed away from Harry.

For a moment Harry sat frozen, horrified. Never had Sirius looked more like the murderer he had so long been thought--his face was white and smeared with blood, his teeth bared in a snarl as he fought with waning strength against his far more powerful enemy. It wouldn't be long before Slytherin overpowered him, and Harry was torn--if he tried to help Sirius he'd likely be killed himself and the Neverstone taken from him, but Slytherin would surely kill Sirius before he could get the Stone into the cauldron.

His indecision did not last long. Quite suddenly he found himself on his feet, the glowing Stone clutched before him and its bizarre power coursing through him stronger than ever. The swirling darkness around him seemed to thin, as his fingers tightened on the Neverstone and, for the second time in a very short while, he found himself bolting for his life.

The cauldron loomed black and forbidding some distance across the Hall, still bubbling away over its icy fire. Harry knew at once that he'd never make it, that Slytherin would surely be able to hit him with a curse before he got anywhere near the blasted potion, but, as he thought wryly to himself, what else was he going to do?

His feet flew over the mess of stone and mortar as though it were solid ground, propelling him as fast as ever they could toward the cauldron. The stone in his hands flared brilliantly, ready to supernova the second it touched that vile potion, but just as he leaped into throwing distance of the bubbling green liquid something hit him violently on the back of the head, and he found himself thrown forward onto the stones.

Harry felt all his breath escape with a woosh as he hit the ground, daggers in his skull and a horrible quaking in his stomach. The Neverstone rolled from his grasp across the flagstones, its rainbow tumult almost boiling beneath its smooth surface. Before he could gather wits or breath enough to lunge for it, however, he felt what was unmistakably a pair of hands wrap themselves around his throat.

"Harry, you meddlesome little fool," hissed a voice--the squeaky, slightly nasal voice of Peter Pettigrew. His silvery hands cut into Harry's neck like piano wire, making him gag and choke while a blackness slowly crept over his vision. "How many people have told you to be careful, lest you meet the same sticky end as your parents?" His inhumanely strong metal fingers dug into Harry's skin, now slick with something he really didn't want to know about.

Pettigrew's breath was hot and foul in his ear, and the blackness crept even further across Harry's eyes--he knew it wouldn't be long before he passed out, and any hope they might have had would be as dead as the zombies outside. Dimly he heard a sickening crack and a cry of agony from Sirius, but his consciousness was fading fast...any second now it would ebb away entirely, and the last thing he would see was the light of the Neverstone, flashing in front of his eyes...

You said you'd help me, he thought vaguely, his hand reaching weakly for the stone as he tried and failed to struggle against the strength of Pettigrew's unnatural arms. And, to his very great surprise, through the thickness and smothering pain of his head there came an answer.

-So I did- the Voice retorted, sounding somewhat miffed. -I just ne'er told you when. You don't need help yet.-

Harry didn't get the chance to retort to this, much though he would have liked to--no sooner had the Voice spoken than there came the crashing of stone and the squealing roar of tearing metal, and a moment later he found himself (with Pettigrew still attached to his neck like a leech) hurled head over feet into the darkness. There was a strange growling quite close to him, and he felt Pettigrew's fingers pried from his throat, followed by a furious scuffling far superior to that made by Slytherin and Sirius.

Harry cradled his now furiously aching head in his hands, lying still amid the stones for a moment while his breath struggled to catch itself. His blurry eyes fought for focus through his cracked glasses, and once they'd found it he stared, absolutely floored for the umpteenth time that day.

His snarling savior was none other than Lupin, still bearing a set of iron shackles around his wrists, needle-like fangs bared and yellow eyes shining with the hunger of a wolf. At the moment one of his hands was gripping Pettigrew's lank shock of hair, while the other one tilted his chin back in an effort to expose his jugular. Harry realized with a feeling of nausea that Lupin was in all likelihood planning to turn Pettigrew into late brunch, but before he could cry out or do something equally stupid one of Pettigrew's silver hands reached up and caught the hungry werewolf by the throat.

The grip was a weak one, but to Harry's surprise Lupin let out a cry of pain and jerked backwards, losing his hold on his enemy. Pettigrew seized his opportunity and leaped to his feet, catching Lupin's neck in his uncanny death-grip and grinning maliciously.

"Stupid werewolf," he sneered, his voice cracking from the effort. "Don't you know what silver does to your kind? I've wanted to do this for years...."

Lupin's face had gone white with agony, his hands scrabbling to loosen the fingers that were searing into his flesh. Harry struggled to gain his feet, not thinking what he was going to do but knowing he had to do something, but fortunately for him he didn't have to--there came a screeching like that of a wildcat, and a moment later something--or someone--landed on Pettigrew's head like a ton of bricks.

"Te bisterdon tumare anava, eyelak! Te malavel les i menkiva! Dili khan llara zham de benchienne!"

Doors, looking like she'd been dragged through a field of blackberries and then rolled down a mountain for good measure, had hold of Pettigrew by both his ears, pulling him backward and firing at him what had to be the longest strand of Romani profanity Harry had ever heard. Pettigrew had released Lupin, who at once collapsed to the floor, and Lorna, who appeared so incensed that her words were failing her, gave up on her tirade and started ripping out his hair instead.

"Harry, will you not hurry up and finish the job already? That potion's not going to wait on you all day!"

His aunt's eyes flicked toward him over the top of Pettigrew's head, and Harry, who had been fighting gravity and his own vertigo for the last three minutes, finally managed to make it more or less to his feet and stumble toward the cauldron once more. Screams were piercing his fuzzy head, screams and yells and at least one voice cheering on the fight, all emanating from the prisoners chained to the walls in the gloom beyond. Horribly he thought he heard Ginny Weasley among them, sobbing and crying, but the light of the Neverstone was shining into the furry blur of his vision and his wounded brain knew that above all else, he must get it into that cauldron.

He staggered sideways, scarcely registering the sounds of the rather nasty fight behind him, his concentration trained wholly on the swirling orb at his feet. He half-fell while bending to retrieve it, but just as his fingers brushed its cool, smooth surface he felt yet another hand close around his collar--a cold, dry, skeletally thin hand, that jerked him violently backward and nearly threw him to the ground.

"Potter, you daft little mongrel, what do you think you're doing?" Slytherin hissed, his voice still soft and almost silky. He sounds like Snape, Harry thought vaguely, momentarily blinded by the pain in his head as Slytherin's eyes burned into his. Dull terror washed over him, accompanied by a formless despair that seemed to seep through his veins like one of Madam Pomfrey's sleeping draughts. He found he could not summon words to answer, as the agony in his head slowly grew and multiplied, drowning out the screams of his classmates, cutting off the sounds of Pettigrew's struggles behind him. His mind was slowly being consumed by those terrible red eyes, and all he could feel was pain.

Slytherin's pale finger touched his forehead, drawing a line across his brow. "Good boy," he murmured, his voice at once painful and soothing. "You'll make a nice addition to my little poison....the blood of the infamous Harry Potter should make it potent indeed."

Harry's consciousness began once more to ebb from him, though this time he seemed unable to fight as his will drained away. He was drowning in red, his eyes burning with the scalding light of his enemy's, and just when he thought he could bear it no more, the Voice of the Neverstone rang out inside his tormented head.

-All right, now you need help.-

And no sooner had it spoken than the terrible redness faded from his vision, and the pain in his head seemed to drain out through his fingertips as he sank to the floor, Slytherin's hands releasing him.

"MUAHAHAHAHAHA!!!"

Something tore Slytherin away from him, leaving him free and alone on the floor. For a moment everything seemed to spin, and the only thing that wasn't hopelessly disoriented was the feeling of the Neverstone in his palm. His vision swam, and what little was in his stomach churned like the lake on a stormy day. He gulped for air, willing his dizziness away and wondering if his legs would get him to the cauldron or not.

-Well, don't just sit there- The voice seemed almost amused. -My diversion's not going to last forever, you know.-

Harry blinked hard, the fuzz in his eyes suddenly clearing, leaving them to focus on his second strange savior. And once he did, he choked.

It was Malfoy--not the idiotic, lovestruck prat he'd been for the last two years, but the real Malfoy, in all his sneering, lip-curling splendor. He'd caught Slytherin in as tight a bear-hug as he could manage, pinning his arms to his sides and trying without much success to jam a sharpened wand into his throat. He was evil, he was crazy, he was suicidal--

And he was currently grinning like the Cheshire Cat on mushroom oil.

"Hit him, Harry, hit him!" he cried, a sort of wicked glee in his voice as Slytherin cursed at him in ways Harry had not thought possible.

Harry simply stared, overcome by a sudden and extremely violent urge to burst out laughing. Dimly he heard a nasty sort of squashing behind him, accompanied by some rather rat-like squeaking, but the thought of throwing a punch at an evil Hogwarts founder in a headlock was just too much--he stood, teetering on the verge of maniacal snickering, while two separate demi-wars raged before and behind him.

Pettigrew let out one last whimper, and Harry's amusing reverie was cut short by something smacking him rather harder than was necessary on the back. Startled, he glanced at his feet and saw that it was one of Pettigrew's silver arms, ripped clean out of the socket and now bearing small splatters of something extremely unpleasant looking. He whirled around to find Doors tugging hard at the unfortunate rat-man's other arm, her eyes alight with mischief at the display Malfoy was putting on.

"Get off me, you cursed little brat!" Slytherin roared, trying to hurl a spell at Malfoy and missing by a good yard. A jet of green light ricocheted off the wall beyond, and Ginny Weasley gave out a terrified screech.

Malfoy's eyes narrowed. "Hey," he said, tightening his grip on Slytherin's shoulders. "Nobody torments the pipsqueak but ME!" And without the slightest hesitation, he sank his teeth into Slytherin's ear.

Harry choked back a wild shriek of laughter, and as if some binding spell on him had been broken he leaped to his feet, the Neverstone clutched in his right hand, and started for the cauldron once more.

He could hear Doors behind him, laughing so hard she was coughing helplessly, and Pettigrew sniveling as she continued to flog the hell out of him with his own arm. Of Lupin and Sirius he could hear nothing, but he had no time to stop and consider this--at last, the cauldron was before him, its sickening contents still bubbling away and giving off a foul odor of decay. There was something horrible about this whole scene, despite Malfoy and Doors's antics--his aunt's laughter was half-crazed and almost gurgling, and the unholy glee in Malfoy's eyes was just that--a little too unholy. Harry had an uneasy feeling that they were all possessed, but a glance at the orb in his hand told him that didn't matter.

The rainbow smoke within the Neverstone slowed its swirling, and for a moment Harry hesitated as he held it over the cauldron.

-Go on, now- the Voice whispered, much of the gaiety now gone from it. -There's no help for it--just chuck it on in there and run like hell. I promise you, it's the best thing you can do.-

Harry stared at the beautiful thing a moment longer, before turning for one last look at Slytherin.

"Hey, Salazar!" he bellowed, holding the orb aloft in his fingers and grinning what could only be described as a Marauder's grin. His eyes flashed in the darkness, and the weight that had been pressing on his heart seemed to lift at being so near his goal.

Slytherin paused his scuffle with Malfoy and looked up. It wasn't possible for him to pale, but his face went almost green and his eyes widened in horror as he saw what Harry was about to do. He tried to lunge for the cauldron, but Malfoy was equal to that and promptly dug his heels into the rubble.

"What are you doing what that thing, Potter?!" he thundered, kicking viciously at Malfoy and reaching for his wand.

Harry's grin only broadened. "Catch," he whispered, and threw the Stone into the air.

Time seemed to slow to a crawl as it spun an arc over his head, sailing gracefully past him and landing with a soft splosh into the potion. For a moment all was utterly still, and then--

"Uh-oh," Malfoy muttered.

Harry had one last glimpse of the cauldron, before his eyes were seared with a blinding flash of light, a light as tumultuous and translucent as that of the Neverstone that exploded from the cauldron and flashed into the darkest recesses of the Hall. Harry threw himself to the floor, instinctively covering his head as his ears filled with a roaring that sounded like someone had dumped the entire cast of The Lion King into a deep fryer. The entire Great Hall shook from foundation to ceiling, even more stone crashing down around him and the people on the walls quite literally shrieking Apocalypse.

Harry stayed where he was, certain he was about to be smashed into the floor. His head was aching so fiercely he feared it would split in two, but the tearing and cracking of the stone was subsiding and he was still more or less intact. Whatever immediately followed this fantastic tremor he never knew, for, the pain in his head overpowering, his body resorted to its final defense against the horrible onslaught to his senses.

Harry passed out.

****

It couldn't have been long before he came to, for the dust still hadn't settled. It was a good deal lighter in the Hall now, and the stillness of a tomb hung over all.

In the dim glow filtering from the ceiling Harry made out line upon line of shackles, now empty of their occupants and dangling rather forlornly. So much wrack and ruin had smashed to the floor that the entire Hall looked like some weird Martian landscape, cratered and pitted and covered in grit. Here and there a knot of people stood, huddled quiet and dazed very close to one another.

Harry gingerly felt his head--it was still sore, but the furious agony that had pierced through it like needles of ice was gone. His glasses were cracked and his white robes smeared with dirt and dust and blood, but aside from wobbly legs and a queasy stomach, he was miraculously unhurt. His fingers found a long, thin scar running along his scalp, but no trace of any grievous injury could he find.

He felt as dazed as everyone else looked, and he could not for the life of him figure out what had happened. Obviously they'd won--hadn't they? His head was so muddled that this could easily all be some sort of dream. He was vaguely aware that his feet were moving, but it wasn't until there came a faint cough from the wreckage that he snapped fully out of his haze.

"Harry?" whispered a small voice directly beside him, making him nearly jump out of his skin. He whirled round, startled, and breathed a sigh of relief.

It was Ginny Weasley, lying on a conjured stretcher under a thick blanket. Her face had been washed of its grime and blood, and there was a sleepy peacefulness in her expression that spoke of a recent Sleeping Draught.

"Hey, Gin," he said, squatting down beside her. He was relieved to see that whatever had been paining her so was obviously gone, though he was frankly puzzled as to who her doctor was.

"Who fixed you up?" he asked, his feet grinding in the grit as he took another look around the Hall.

Ginny yawned. "The same person that healed you," she said, settling contentedly back onto her fat pillow, an object that contrasted oddly with the destruction around her.

Harry touched the scar on the back of his head again, and realized that someone must have sealed up his nasty little wound while he was still out of it. His face was clean like Ginny's, though his healer had obviously deemed a sleeping potion unnecessary.

"Hey, Harry?" Ginny muttered sleepily, struggling to keep her eyelids open for a few more seconds.

"Yeah?" Harry said, once more startled out of his wonderings.

"Where's Ron at? Will you see if he's okay for me?"

Harry at once felt a great block of ice slide into his stomach--Ron had been with Lupin, and from what he had seen Lupin had been most decidedly...not himself. "Er, sure," he muttered, before getting to his feet and fairly flying for what was left of the far doors.

What if something had happened to Ron and Hermione? Lord knew what had been going on in the rest of the school--Slytherin had been more than bad enough, but he was by no means the only Nameless No-No wandering around the castle during the whole fracas. Suppose Voldemort had come across the conked-out Hermione and decided to use her for cursing practice? Harry felt slightly sick at the thought.

He skidded out into the corridor, which wasn't choked with nearly as much debris as the Hall, and was about to go tearing off up the far steps when out of nowhere a hand clamped over his mouth. Arms with the strength of iron pinned him still, and a moment later Harry felt the cold, stinging bite of a steel blade at his throat.

"So, Potter," hissed a voice, soft as silk and frigid as the winter air. "Thought you'd go searching for Weasley, did you?" The blade gouged harder into his throat, making him gasp and choke. Long fingers dug into his cheek as the hand on Harry's mouth drew his head back, allowing the knife greater access to the hollow of his chin, and the mellifluous, icy voice continued in a velvet whisper,

"How would you like to meet your parents instead?"

Harry choked.

Snape chuckled.

And Harry knew at once that he was completely, and utterly, screwed.

A/N: Oi....was that not awful? I'm sorry, folks, but my creativity seemed to bail out on this chapter. I'll probably redo it at some point in time, but meanwhile...I don't want to be disemboweled by angry minions after the next part. I know this was a nasty cliffhanger, but bear with me, it will be resolved. Also, no, I haven't forgotten about Dumbledore--you'll learn just what he was up to during this whole fiasco in the next part. ::wipes forehead in exhaustion::

Oh, and a slight query, probably hypothetical: Does anyone happen to have a ship preference for Doors? 'cause I'm undecided on that one, and I'm curious to see if anyone out there actually has an idea. ::weary grin::

SpamWarrior, the Thoroughly Exhausted