Disclaimer: I own naught but McLellan.
A/N: I had to repost this due to the fact that I made a glaringly obvious and stupid error. Bill Weasley is currently being held captive by Voldemort. I meant to type "Percy" instead. Gah. Sorry about that. I just always do a count in my head of the Weasleys…ANYway, sorry for those of you who this confused. It was an error in editing.
Don't I feel clever.
Lost
Part 14
By Veralidaine
Ron groggily opened one eye, and then immediately shut it against the glare. Everything around him was white, and he wondered vaguely for a moment why it was that hospitals did that—it was stupid, really, because it was always so bright and painful when you first opened your eyes… He allowed his eyelids to part just ever so slightly and had a look round the room. Yes, he was definitely in a hospital. This wasn't the hospital wing at Hogwarts; that was for sure. His bed (white sheets) was surrounded by curtains (white), and he noticed that the hospital gown he was wearing (white, of course) was really rather uncomfortable and stiff. And his head felt like it had been splinched in an Apparation accident. Counting the episode with the Muggle burglar, it was the second time in the past few months that Ron had woken up uncomfortably in a hospital bed and cursed consciousness.
And then it hit him. The Yule Ball. Harry. The Death Eaters. That curse thrown at him…
Oh, bugger.
Well, now he had to get up, didn't he? He had a rather sick sort of feeling in the pit of his stomach, and could feel his head spinning and his ears starting to fill with a ringing noise—he wasn't sure whether it was worry or the fact that he was now standing up. His vision was not being cooperative, however, and he had to slump back down on the bed for a moment, holding his head in his hands. Okay. He could do this. He just had to stand up and—
He fell over again. He was starting to get really angry—the ringing in his ears was increasing in volume—when the curtains opened and a short, somewhat pudgy nurse skittered in, surveying him disapprovingly. "Now, Mr. Weasley, what are you doing?"
Ron didn't bother wondering how she knew his name, or who she was, or why she'd bothered to come check on him. "Where's Harry? Is Hermione okay? How long have I been here?"
The nurse tutted and, grabbing his ankles, lifted his legs back onto the bed (they'd been hanging off the side from when he'd attempted standing). "Stop your fretting and lie down. You'll give yourself a concussion."
"I will not stop my fretting—tell me what's going on!" He crossed his arms stubbornly and pouted at the nurse.
"And they told me you were seventeen," she muttered, rolling her eyes. She turned and pulled back the curtains, heading back outside to wherever it was she'd come from in the first place. "I'll send in the young lady," she called over her shoulder.
Ron sat and muttered grumpily about nursing school curriculum involving fussiness-training until Hermione peeped through the curtains. And then he sat up too fast and, with a moan, pulled his knees to his chest and rested his forehead on them. He felt Hermione's hands on his shoulders and looked up (very slowly so as not to cause a headache again) to see her face close to his.
"Ron, lie back down."
"No," Ron protested, rather pathetically, he thought, as she pushed gently on his shoulders and he fell back on the rather stiff pillow. "Hermione, are you—"
"What were you thinking?" she interrupted, eyes round and a slightly hoarse edge to her voice. "You could have been killed! You nearly were killed, Ron! What was I supposed to do—you left me with Malfoy, of all people, and—"
It was Ron's turn to interrupt: "Did he hurt you?"
Hermione blinked. "No. But, really, Ron—"
"Well, what was I supposed to do? I mean, Harry was fighting this Death Eater, and I wasn't about to let him get himself killed, so I couldn't just stand there! Part of the reason we both made it is because we confused him, and…Hermione, do not look away like that. Don't." There was that sick feeling again. As soon as he'd mentioned that they'd both "made it," Hermione had sighed rather raggedly and looked away.
It was silent for a moment. "We'll have to call your parents," Hermione said in a rather strained voice, sounding far away. "They'll want to know you've woken up."
"Oh, stop," Ron spat, and Hermione looked at him somewhat fearfully. "Just stoppit. Where's Harry, then, if he's not here? What, did he die? What's happened that involves Harry and makes you spontaneously change the subject mid-conversation? You may's well tell me." He pointed vaguely to his head. "I can't get up and have a tantrum. Worst I'll do is faint."
Hermione swallowed hard, glaring at the floor, obviously annoyed by his sarcasm. "Well…We don't quite…know…if he's alive. They took him."
"They what?"
"Took him." She looked at the ceiling, sighing. "They shot that thing at you, and then aimed for Harry, but then Malfoy pulled me out of the doorway—I think one of the Death Eaters was trying to see me—and then there was this explosion, and then they were gone. With Harry."
"It was Lucius Malfoy."
"What?"
"The Death Eater that attacked Harry," Ron muttered, picking at the white blanket covering him. "It was Malfoy's dad. I recognized his voice."
Hermione nodded slowly. "Then that's why he pulled me out of the doorway. And why he warned me about getting out of the Hall. He knew." She stared at the floor, brow furrowed, for a moment. Then, seemingly finding herself again, she looked up, shaking her head to clear it. "Malfoy doing something good. Wow."
Ron exhaled sharply and massaged his temples. "God, everything's just falling apart, isn't it? Everything's turned upside down. Next thing you know, Snape'll be handing out sweets."
Hermione sat down on the foot of the bed and pulled her knees up, hands gripping her hair. "For heaven's sake, I never imagined, ever, that seventh year would be like this." She sniffed, and Ron noted uneasily that she was going to start crying soon. "I mean…" she said, bringing her head up and staring at the wall. "I mean, I never thought that my parents would be killed, or—or that your house would be attacked, or that Harry would be taken, or that I'd be related to Voldemort, or—hell, I didn't even expect Voldemort to be around during seventh year…" Her voice broke. "I hate it! It's miserable!"
Ron nodded sympathetically, sighing. "Hermione, none of us ever saw this coming." He took a deep breath. "And even though it is miserable and awful, I can't say I'd go back and change it. I hate to think of where I'd be without you and Harry. Yeah, maybe life's miserable now, but we've still got each other, right?"
Hermione looked at him with red-rimmed eyes. "Yeah, but if you didn't know Harry and I, your life would be better. You wouldn't be dealing with all of this rubbish. Your family would be safe…You'd still have a house," she added bitterly. "I'm doomed, always was. It was inevitable for me, and obviously for Harry. You didn't have to be put through this."
"Yeah, well, I chose to," Ron said tonelessly. "I hate to turn this into a sappy moment, but I'm really glad Neville lost Trevor during that train ride in first year. You can be a martyr all you like and tell me I'd be better off without you, but I'm not going to listen." He crossed his arms, ignoring the ache in his back.
Hermione just stared at him, arms encircling her knees, which were still pulled up against her chest. It was quiet for a moment, and then she cleared her throat softly. "Thanks," she whispered.
"No problem," Ron said quietly.
It was silent for a moment longer. "So when do we get to go back to Hogwarts?" Ron asked, trying to find a loose thread in his quilt to pick at. He was unsuccessful. Damn hospital sheets and their anti-unraveling charms.
Hermione sighed. "Once they've checked you over to make sure you're well enough."
Ron nodded, but Hermione kept staring out the window. She looked preoccupied. Well, of course she does, twit. Aren't we all?
It was then that the hospital room's door burst open, revealing the entire Weasley family to see Ron. Ginny looked terribly shaken, but came over and patted his hand quietly, exchanging a tired look with Hermione. Ron noticed that, for once, they were all quiet. Even Fred and George, who appeared to have taken the day off from Weasley's Wizard Wheezes. Charlie, standing in back, looked grim-faced and tired. They each nodded at Ron solemnly, obviously glad he was conscious, but rather preoccupied as well. Even Percy had taken off of work to come visit, which was rare. It made it all the more obvious that Bill was gone, to have the entire family present, but missing one member.
Hermione looked around confusedly at all the grim faces suspiciously. "Has…Has something else happened?"
Mr. Weasley cleared his throat. "Here, Hermione. Read this." He handed her a copy of the Daily Prophet.
Ron's stomach dropped. He just knew it had to be some article by a Reeta Skeeter-ish reporter, or perhaps some other stupid thing Fudge did…But Hermione just stared at the paper, head shaking. She didn't look angry, exactly, just sort of astonished. Ron was getting nervous, and his head was hurting even worse what with all the tension in the room. "What is it?"
Hermione cleared her throat in the same way Mr. Weasley had a moment before and sighed. "Pettigrew's escaped." She held the paper so he could see it from where he was. The headline read:
Ron slumped his head back on the pillow. Mrs. Weasley sighed loudly and brushed Hermione's hair out of her face in a motherly fashion, tutting softly about something to keep the room from becoming totally silent. Charlie shifted weight from one foot to the other in the corner and Percy cleared his throat.
Finally, Ron sighed. "Hey, he was your rat, Perce."
*
It was very, very dark, and very, very cold. And wet, for some odd reason. Or was that blood trickling down his forehead? And if it wasn't blood, then what was it? Harry didn't know, and to be entirely truthful, he didn't particularly want to. The first thing he noticed—it was hard not to—was that he was bound to the wall by long chains clamped round his wrists and ankles, and he knew without even trying to look that his wand had been taken from him. The second thing he noticed was a not-so-dull ache in his forehead, emanating from his scar. It was extremely unpleasant, but the fact that he no longer had his wand and was in a dark, wet room had taken first priority in his mind.
His eyes began to adjust to the darkness and he made out a dim shape which he supposed was some piece of furniture (if this is Voldemort's place, he figured, which it most likely is, then it's got to be some sort of torture device), and he couldn't see any sort of door or window.
"Then how did he get me in here in the first place?" Harry muttered to himself.
"There's a door. It's just hidden," said a soft voice to his left. Harry jumped and turned to see who it was. McLellan was chained in a similar manner as himself. She was seated dejectedly on the floor, head slightly bowed and hair matted with something wet. She was terribly bruised, and her lip was swollen and bleeding. Harry imagined he must be in a somewhat comparable condition, but that wasn't something he could deal with at the moment.
"Professor McLellan? I didn't know…"
"You were busy fighting off that evil git, Malfoy, I think. At any rate, we're both completely buggered."
Harry's eyebrows furrowed in thought. It hurt his head. "Uhm…Why did they kidnap you, too?"
McLellan exhaled sharply through her nose. "They think I'll be useful."
Harry raised an eyebrow—that small movement hurt, too. "What d'you mean?"
"Long story, Harry."
Harry snorted. "I'm not going anywhere for awhile. You might as well."
"Good point." She sighed again. "I can speak with faeries."
It was completely quiet for a moment, Harry contemplating whether the torture or lack of light or both had gone to his professor's head. "You…talk to faeries?"
"Aye. 'S a useful talent, apparently." She fidgeted, feet making a grating noise on the stone floor. "They want me to use the fae to wage war on Hogwarts, basically. He's tried this before."
"What? He's tried—with you—wait a sec'—attacking Hogwarts with faeries?" Harry's head was hurting again. Worse than usual. Harry supposed it was from the sudden movement of sitting up a moment ago. He suddenly felt very tired and wanted to wake up and find himself in the Gryffindor boys' dormitory. Preferably everything from the Death Eaters onward would have been some bizarre dream. Well, nightmare.
"Yes. I was…sixteen? I think that's when it was. Gah, I sound like some old ninny. At any rate, this isn't the first time he's had this brilliant idea. I would think he'd know that I'd rather die than help him, but apparently he still thinks he can turn me." In the darkness Harry saw the outline of her face turn in his direction. "As for you…I don't understand why he's not yet killed you. Not to be morbid and pessimistic, but really…"
Yes, that had been bothering Harry, too. Somewhere crowded in with all the other worries in his head. "Yeah…I dunno what he's planning."
"Can't be good."
"Nope."
It was quiet again for a few minutes. Harry shifted his sitting position, and the stony grating noise echoed wetly around the dark chamber. Something dripped from the ceiling and slowly ran down his face. Water, he supposed, but he didn't really want to know if it was otherwise. Either way, it was cold, wet, and unpleasant. He shivered.
"Scared?" McLellan asked softly, sounding concerned.
"No," Harry answered, somewhat untruthfully.
"Sure?"
Silence. "Yes," Harry muttered, not entirely sure of what to say at this point. He was scared, but he wasn't going to let it show because…Well, he was Harry Potter. Harry Potter wasn't afraid of Voldemort, or death, or anything, for that matter. Harry Potter was supposed to be fearless, emotionless, brave…Harry Potter was—
Oh, who had made up all of this rubbish, anyway? Regardless of what anyone said or thought, Harry Potter was an ordinary boy, just trying to lead an ordinary life. It confused him, because it was like Harry Potter was two different people by the same name. Harry Potter was his name, and he of course knew that, but it took on special significance in the Wizarding world. People didn't just take his name as they would anyone else's. No, he was Harry Potter. It was hard to explain, but while everyone else viewed him as The Famous Harry Potter, Harry was just…Harry, to himself. When people suggested otherwise, it made Harry want to yell, "I'm not Harry Potter!" but he was, of course, so that was silly. But he wasn't what they thought of as Harry Potter. In Harry's eyes, he was just a normal, seventeen-year-old boy, trying to sort out his young life and to graduate school. Like all other boys his age. Unfortunately, he wasn't allowed.
And it wasn't like all other seventeen-year-old boys found themselves in dungeons, preparing to encounter their arch-nemesis who had attempted to murder them about six times prior.
"It's not a crime, you know," McLellan murmured. She looked even paler now, and what dim light there was in the room shone on her skin. She turned her head and a tangle of hair fell into her face, obscuring it from view. "Everyone's allowed to be scared. Especially in this sort of situation."
"I know."
McLellan nodded, tossing her hair as best she could over her shoulder. It flopped wetly down in her face again and she exhaled sharply. "To be truthful, I'm not so much scared as tired."
Harry could relate to that. "Yeah," me muttered. "I've been dealing with this since I turned eleven. It gets really old, doesn't it?"
"Aye." She sighed again. She did that a lot, Harry noticed. "I s'pose it would get really tiring. Myself, I've had enough. I'd been fighting with people I care about, had to be potions master, had to leave Ireland…This year's been absolutely horrendous, what with all that nonsense. And now, they've chucked me in adungeon to make me use the fae against Hogwarts. The evil git just doesn't learn. I'm getting old! I can't keep it up forever…" She seemed to have calmed down now that she'd ranted a bit, and Harry nodded, staring into the darkness in front of him.
She shook her head, and more hair fell into her face. She sighedand moved one arm furiously to brush it away, making her chains clatter together. "Oh, sod it. I shouldn't be going on like this—you've far more to complain about than I do."
Harry shrugged. "Yeah, but I don't like to complain."
McLellan smiled slightly and turned to look at him. "You know," she said after a moment, "you do have Lily's eyes. I know you've heard it before," she added as he raised the eyes under discussion to the ceiling, "but it's completely true."
Harry nodded, smiling lightly to himself. "Yeah, well…Professor Lupin said you were friends with my…with my Mum. At Hogwarts."
"And afterwards," McLellan confirmed. "Lily was—"
Both gasped as a burst of greenish light splashed into the dark of their dungeon room. The doorway was almost too bright to look at, but in the doorframe was the dark outline of a Death Eater's robes and hood. He pointed his wand at them and Harry found his wrists and ankles free of their binds. "This way," said a rather familiar sneering voice.
"It's Lucius' job, apparently," McLellan said loudly, "to retrieve prisoners. He's been doing it for awhile. Still no promotion, then, Malfoy? What, you've not done enough toadying to end up in a position like Wormtail's?"
Though Mr. Malfoy looked extremely annoyed, even with the mask on, he just pointed out into the stony corridor filled with greenish light. Harry obeyed, not sure of what exactly was coming. McLellan took her sweet time about it, though, and made Lucius prod her in the back with his wand the entire way. The corridors were completely stone—the walls, floor, and ceiling were moist, dark rock, occasionally interrupted by a torch with burning green flames. There was an omnipresent sound of water dripping, and some rather unpleasant sounds that resembled screams of torture. Harry flinched each time he heard one. McLellan had assumed a rather numb facial expression, and Harry wondered just what she was planning and what he would do if they killed her and he was left without an ally.
Finally, the horrible walk through the winding maze of corridors came to an abrupt end at a large, black stone door set with emeralds. It reminded Harry rather forcefully of the décor in the Chamber of Secrets, but his mind was flailing about quite randomly, so he couldn't keep one thought pinned down long enough to actually think about it sufficiently. The doors opened, and Harry's scar began to hurt far worse than the dull ache it had been earlier. It was a dreadful sort of heat that made him feel as though his head would explode any second. It worsened as he stepped through the doors, and he stumbled. McLellan grabbed his arm and helped him stagger into the hall. As a horrible, hissing voice murmured something—it was quiet and Harry was preoccupied with his scar—he realized where he was.
Voldemort's throne room.
*
Hermione was exhausted, both emotionally and physically. Something about her life recently had completely extracted the energy from her body, leaving her with an ever-present feeling of complete fatigue. Since Harry had been taken, she'd become immensely worried and anxious, when she'd found out about Wormtail's escape, she'd felt like falling over. Then, as if all other circumstances weren't enough, Ron had been forced to stay in the hospital for another week due to severe head problems resulting from the Death Eater's curse (Fred had joked, rather weakly, that Ron had always had severe head problems, so maybe this had just set him right). So with all of this, she'd gone off of eating again. She was back to how she'd been over summer—sleeping constantly, never hungry, and looking like death itself when she glimpsed her reflection in a mirror.
Parvati and Lavender were obviously concerned, but they weren't entirely sure what to think. Hermione vaguely guessed that they had an idea that she was in love with Harry or some other rubbish, and that was why she was grieving. At any rate, they avoided her as much as they could, occasionally shooting her sympathetic looks from across a corridor. People whispered as she passed, and she spent nearly every waking hour wanting Ron to recover so she wouldn't have to walk through the hallways alone, listening to the constant whispering and murmuring, and just barely hearing her name hissed in the numerous conversations that sprung up as she passed.
It would be another week before Ron finally would be allowed back at school. Hermione had managed to collect all of his extra work, but she hadn't quite the heart to shove it all at him immediately after he returned. She resolved to help him with it, and it was put on her list of things she would do later, which was growing ever longer…She found herself procrastinating much more than she'd ever allowed herself before. An Ancient Runes project she'd had a full month to work on still remained un-translated, and was buried under the clothes in her trunk, untouched since the day it had been assigned. Professor McGonagall seemed very concerned about her, but was wise enough not to say anything, and to simply give her some space.
Basically, Hermione's day consisted of getting up just in time to get to class, regardless of how disheveled she looked; sitting unresponsively through her classes, sitting and staring at her plate at lunch, finishing her afternoon classes, and then going to sleep. If she was lucky, she'd wake up at about four in the morning and do some of her homework. Tired as she was, that was the only thing that she still felt some major obligation to, however weak. If she didn't manage to get to it at breakfast or late at night, she just rushed through it in the last moments before the chimes rang, feeling sick with herself for not completing it, but too tired to really care.
Ron at last returned to school, to Hermione's great relief. She was to meet him in the entrance hall after Friday afternoon's last class. It was a cold, miserable day during a spell of freezing, pouring rain that would most likely become snow before the week was out. Trudging into the entrance hall from Transfiguration (they'd been doing something along the lines of changing handkerchiefs into doves, but Hermione's still had had cross-stitched eyes, and Professor McGonagall had been most disappointed), she leaned back against a wall, hugging herself against the perpetual cold of January in a stone castle.
Her hair fell into her face and she ignored it, staring with glazed-over eyes at the flagged stone floor. She wasn't able to concentrate on anything, and somewhere within the numerous numb layers of her mind, some part of her seemed to be fluttering its wings and trying to escape, but gradually its voice was drowned out by the noise of all her worries and fears. That fluttering was her old self, panicking about the lack of effort in her homework, and her lack of enthusiasm towards life in general. It was funny, she thought, that everyone had always assumed that she, as Hermione Granger, would be the strongest, most put-together person in their little trio. With all of her organization and shrewdness, it seemed that she would never have an emotional breakdown, or become depressed, or giggle and act like an idiot, like other teenaged girls. In reality, Hermione was rather fragile in the emotional department. Everything stayed bottled up, and then it manifested itself in not eating, sleeping all day, and a serious lack of alertness of anything important.
"Hermione?"
Ron was standing in the doorway, one of the oak doors held open by one outstretched hand. His fiery hair was wet and matted from the cold rain outside, and his skin was pale, making his freckles stand out harshly, but he was grinning at her just the same. She let her feet carry her quickly to him and she felt herself pulled up into his arms. He smelled like the cold wet of the storm outside, and his rain-drenched robes were getting her completely soaked, but she didn't feel like moving out of the doorway at the moment. It was nice enough just standing there with her face buried in his shoulder.
"Erm…D'you suppose we ought to move out of the doorway?" Ron asked, chuckling, and Hermione gave up with a sigh and pulled him in.
"Of course," she said, tugging his sleeve and closing the door behind them. "Sorry…"
He was eyeing her suspiciously, taking in the disheveled hair and pale face. She avoided his eyes, and he cleared his throat. "You've gone off eating again, haven't you?"
Hermione shrugged. "No…"
"Yeah, you have. Here," —he handed her a chocolate frog— "eat this. I picked it up on the train ride."
Hermione reluctantly unwrapped the chocolate, trying to ignore the loudness of the crinkling noise in the empty hall. The sound seemed to bounce off the high ceiling, and was only overpowered by the steady sound of the torrent outside. She popped the candy into her mouth and immediately felt the warming effect that it gave after an encounter with Dementors. Really, she supposed, she'd had the life sucked out of her, in a way. She was just so tired…But Ron was back, and she would try to pull herself together enough to devise a plan…(What, she was supposed to let the MINISTRY try to find Harry and Professor McLellan?)
And as long as she was on the topic of McLellan…Professor Lupin strode rather slowly into the hall, looking, to put it simply, depressed. He'd had several nasty wounds, including a broken arm, a twisted back, and a nasty set of hexes put on him, but he'd recovered rather well at St. Mungo's, and Madam Pomfrey had managed to clean up the leftover bruises and cuts that were too small for any serious medical attention. He'd allowed the entire ordeal of healing him to go by without giving any sort of response. He seemed to be constantly deep in thought, and though he'd returned to his classes, often just assigned reading and stared out the window, obviously thinking, but also just…not there. Hermione felt badly for him, having witnessed (well, mostly) his reunion with McLellan, and the fact that they were finally getting along, only to have McLellan kidnapped.
He turned and noticed the two of them standing there, watching him. "Oh, hullo, Ron. You've recovered, then?"
"Yep," Ron said. "Same with you?"
"Yes," Lupin muttered, scratching the back of his neck. "Quite nicely, so they said." He glanced at Hermione. "Came to meet him, then?"
Hermione nodded mutely, wondering where he was going with this conversation. Lupin just stood there, staring at the floor for a moment, and in the awkward silence, Ron and Hermione exchanged a look. Lupin glanced up at them, finally. "Did you see the Daily Prophet a few days ago?"
"Yeah," Ron and Hermione muttered simultaneously. Ron made a face. "Pettigrew."
Lupin nodded silently, face unreadable. Finally: "Do either of you have any idea where…?"
Both teenagers shook their heads, and Lupin nodded, a deep sigh escaping him. "Right…I guess I'll just have to…Never mind." He shook his head and started off in the direction of the teachers' lounge. "Well, good to know you two are well-off. I've got a meeting in five minutes, though, and I daresay Minerva will be quite displeased if I arrive late." With a small smile and wave, he set off, leaving Ron and Hermione alone in the Entrance Hall.
"Well," Ron said quietly a moment later, "he's not doing so well, is he?"
Hermione pursed her lips thoughtfully. "Well, it's not as though he's gone mad or anything; he's just constantly lost in thought. Lavender Brown had her hand raised for twenty minutes in class this morning before he noticed."
Ron shook his head. "What a mess."
"Yep."
"Is it about time for dinner, then?" Ron asked, punctuating this remark with a loud growl from his stomach.
Hermione herself found that she was a bit hungry. A bit. "Yeah. Come on, let's head towards the hall. I think they're doing shepherd's pie tonight."
It was very cold and dark and wet. Hermione shivered, hugging herself, and curled up in a little ball on the stone floor. What was this? Last she'd checked, she was warm and safe in her bed, reading…Well, then, this has to be a dream.
Yes, that's it. She stood carefully, noticing the cold under her hands as she pushed herself up. The cold was somewhat surprising. She'd been cold before, obviously. Winter was cold, of course, but this was…frigid…in a way that was frightening and intense.
Suddenly, green light filled the entire place, illuminating long-neglected chandeliers hanging by mold-covered chains. The floor was green-tinged stone, wet and cold with condensation, like that of inside a cave. But these were minor background details. In a horrid emerald-set thrown sat a horrible bald thing with snake-like eyes and slits for nostrils…Harry had told Hermione, of course, what Voldemort looked like. She'd thought he sounded simply horrifying. Well, actually seeing him was far worse, and Hermione backed into a cold, wet wall, gasping and wanting desperately to scream, only to find that her throat had frozen in fear.
There were two people in front of the throne—she squinted and recognized them as Harry and McLellan. She wanted to yell to them, but once again, her throat wouldn't cooperate, and she was too distracted by the horrible creature sitting on the throne. Somewhere deep inside her, there was another feeling; one of hate, for all he'd done to her, her family, Harry, and everyone else in the Wizarding world…But that was ignored for the time being. Right now, she was too busy being scared out of her wits.
"Last chance, McLellan. Will you do this willingly, or do I have to force you?"
"Yeh can't farce me," McLellan said, accent sounding particularly strong in her anger. She swallowed hard. "I'll die fairst."
Voldemort just laughed. Then he turned to Harry. "Now, Potter, what am I to do with you? Hold your tongue, Mudblood," he said to McLellan, who was trying to mutter something to Harry. "You may be wondering why you're still alive. Well, you'll die in due time. I need you in my possession in order to distill the confidence of the Ministry and its allies. I want Dumbledore to realize he has been beaten. And then I'll kill you."
"Thanks for the advance warning," McLellan said dryly.
"Silence yourself, Mudblood," Voldemort said icily.
"Since when do you get off calling me Mudblood?" McLellan retorted, hands on her hips. "As I recall, your father was—"
"ENOUGH!"
McLellan cried out as a jet of red light hit her, sending her flailing back toward the wall Hermione was standing against, hitting it with a loud thumping noise. Hermione gasped and tried to help the professor up, only to have her hand pass through as if she were a ghost. Voldemort let out a nasty chuckle and turned to Harry again. "Oh, do stop looking so expectant. What, you thought I'd reveal my whole diabolical scheme to you?" He sniggered and Harry looked ill. "No, boy, I don't do that."
McLellan sat up on the floor with a groan, and Hermione glanced down at her. She had a nasty bruise on her forehead from where it had connected with the stone floor, but she shook her head and glanced at the emerald throne. "Voldemort," she said hoarsely, "leave him alone."
"Oh, now, my dear Mudblood, do you want to be thrown against the wall again, or are you just stupid?" Voldemort glanced at Harry in a horribly calculating manner, but then turned back to McLellan. "You know, Mudblood, I could really use your powers. The hard part is getting you to cooperate."
"Yes, 't'would be, due to the fact that I loathe you."
"Yes, well. So I've been thinking…Do I really need Potter, here? What does he really mean to me, in the grand scheme of things? I mean," he chuckled, "they already think he's dead, correct? So they aren't going to give any more of a reaction. May as well kill him now and not take any chances, don't you think?"
"You monster."
"Yes, well, I wouldn't talk, if I were you, McLellan. Now, as I was saying, what's the point of keeping this scrawny little creature around any longer than absolutely necessary?" He cleared his throat loudly, pointing his wand tip at Harry. "Avada Kedavra!"
"NO!" McLellan and Hermione both shrieked at the same time, Hermione covering her mouth with one hand and McLellan scrambling to her feet and hurrying over to where Voldemort sat, laughing. The form that was Harry was collapsed in the floor, not moving, and Hermione felt her vision spinning and a horrible twisting and sickness in her stomach. McLellan hurried over to Harry and knelt next to him, looking shell-shocked.
Suddenly, to everyone in attendance's obvious shock, Harry moved. He coughed as though he'd had the wind knocked rather painfully out of him, and sat back up again, looking terribly shaken, but very alive. Voldemort looked about ready to fall out of his throne.
"WHAT?!"
McLellan grabbed Harry in a huge hug, and the boy just looked completely mystified, and absolutely terrified. Voldemort just gaped. "What…Why didn't…?"
Hermione's knees gave way and she slumped down on the stone floor, gasping for breath, tears starting to trickle down her cheeks. Her mind went rather numb from confusion and shock.
McLellan looked up at Voldemort triumphantly, still holding Harry tightly, though Harry simply looked confused and rather shocked. "You know what this means, then, don't you?" she asked coolly, flipping her hair out of her face. "You can't kill him."
"Then I'm not the last…But then…" It was very odd, seeing something so snake-like and hideous look so confused. Then: "Of course!" Voldemort stood suddenly at his throne. "Of course…Why didn't I think of it before…? I'd completely forgotten." He sneered, nodding his head contemplatively. "I'd completely forgotten about the girl."
Hermione felt her insides go cold. He meant her.
"I'd heard a rumor she was it, but I didn't believe it. Well, this just proves it. Wormtail failed to obtain her earlier, and now he'll simply have to succeed."
Looking extremely annoyed, the Dark Lord stood and, with a wave of his hand, sent both McLellan and Harry tumbling painfully against the stone wall near where Hermione stood. Hermione knelt down, but once again was ghostlike in presence and couldn't help either of them.
"Well, I've no reason to keep you here in my sight. Lucius, escort them back to their cell."
McLellan stood carefully, rubbing her elbow where it had hit the hard floor. She extended a small hand downwards toward Harry and, once he'd grabbed it, helped him up. The two of them shakily walked over to the door, McLellan shooting Malfoy a dirty look. Lucius closed the door behind him, and Hermione only caught a fading glance of Harry and Professor McLellan hobbling down the green-lit stone corridor.
"I know you can see all of this," Voldemort said suddenly into the darkened chamber, and Hermione gasped. "I don't know where you are, or how, but I know you've seen. Most likely, this is the work of that Muggle-loving moron Dumbledore. No matter, you won't escape me, regardless of what you've seen. In fact, if you don't want to endanger Hogwarts, you'll come yourself. If you haven't come by the end of February, I will simply have the castle attacked again, but this time, there won't be any mistakes, and I will have you." Hermione couldn't see his face, but she knew he was sneering.
"Oh," Voldemort muttered, as an afterthought, "and don't even try to stop me."
Suddenly, the entire room filled with a bright emerald glare, and with a cry, Hermione fell to her knees and covered her face with her hands, afraid of what was coming next.
Suddenly, the light faded, and she was being shaken awake by a very concerned Lavender and Parvati. Lavender's light brown hair was in a rather frizzy state, falling in her face and looking matted—something she painstakingly corrected every morning. Parvati's hair was in a long, dark braid down her back, but she'd forgotten to take off her lip gloss, and it was now smeared all over her face. Parvati was staring at her, the white around her dark eyes particularly vivid in the moonlight. "Hermione, you were yelling and it woke us up—it sounded like you were being attacked!…What's going on?"
Hermione shook her head, swallowing hard, and sat up. "I've got to see Dumbledore…"
A/N: Bwahahaha! The plot develops itself…I don't mean to make Lavender and Parvati seem like such complete ditzes, really, they just come out that way. They're nice people, though, I'm sure…Okay, well, I hope that was a sufficient chapter. I shall refrain from begging for reviews this time. I'm tired of it, and by now, I figure I'm mostly writing for myself, and for my amusement. The reviews are just an added bonus. Okay, I'm really rambling. I've got to shut up now. (I'm in a rambly mood—I just got back from seeing Moulin Rouge, which was simply fantastic, and Ewan McGregor is…well, I'm going to quit before I thoroughly embarrass myself. Heh, I'm doing it again…Right. I really am going to shut up, now.)
