Thank you for the reviews on both the chapter and the interlude yesterday!

The title of this chapter comes from a line in Swinburne's poem "Hesperia."

Chapter Eleven: Stung Into Storm

Harry sighed and sat back, flexing his hand slowly open. It hurt from the long time he'd spent gripping the quill, more so than the time he'd spent writing. He'd had to think for long minutes before he discovered the perfect things to say to James, Connor, and Remus. Each letter had to be different, just long enough to convey that he was all right without worrying them with too much detail, and informed by the knowledge of being mostly apart from them for a month.

Connor can keep this part of leadership, Harry thought, as he sealed the last letter and turned to look apprehensively at Hedwig. Hedwig cocked her head and hooted indignantly, as much to say that she could too carry three letters to the same place, and Harry had been a fool to doubt her.

"Sorry, girl," Harry whispered, his hand smoothing down the feathers of her chest. "Nerves, I guess."

He found twine in the drawer of the table beside his bed, and used it to bind the three letters strongly to Hedwig's leg. He made sure the name on each envelope was clearly visible, then nodded and sighed and told her, "Lux Aeterna, girl. James, Connor, Remus."

Hedwig flipped her wings open and took off, shining in the dim light of the dungeons. Harry heard a brief hooting squabble before Snape opened his door for her. He closed his eyes and pictured her skimming up through the dungeons, heading for the Owlery.

"Harry."

Harry let out another sigh. The departure of Hedwig meant that he had finished his letters, and so the time that Snape and Draco had agreed to let him spend alone was over. He glanced towards the door, and found Snape already standing there. "Yes, sir?" he asked.

"We have things to speak of." Snape sounded as certain as he had been the day he told Harry he was staying at Hogwarts for the rest of the summer, but this time, there was no happiness or amusement in his voice. It sounded dry, purged to dust.

Harry nodded, and looked past Snape to see if Draco was there. Draco slipped around the professor a moment later, and made a zigzag line for the desk where Harry sat. Harry stood up and hugged him one-armed. He'd sat for long enough on the hard chair, and figured he should at least be able to sit in comfort for the discussion that was coming.

He sat down on the bed, with Draco beside him. He looked up to meet Snape's raised eyebrows, but they went down again in a moment, cutting off any hope of a reprieve.

"You were once again in danger today," Snape noted.

Harry shook his head slightly. "I am always in danger," he said. "I think that the sooner you learn that, the better."

Snape ignored him. "It was danger that could have been prevented in one respect, Harry. I think it is time that you learned to resist someone trying to Apparate with you. It would not have stopped everything that happened, perhaps, including exposure of the Minister's corruption, but at least you would have been able to remain free and out of the Hound's grasp."

Harry blinked. "I didn't know that resisting Side Along Apparition was possible, sir."

"Of course it is, for a skilled Occlumens," said Snape, waving one hand as though Harry should have known that already. "You will have noticed that Side Along Apparition is different from doing it on your own—that the sensations are more dizzying, for example."

Harry nodded, and moved closer to Draco when his friend tugged with one arm. Harry relaxed when he felt the warmth seeping in from his side. "I always feel more likely to be sick after a Side Along Apparition," he said.

"That is because the space through which wizards Apparate influences one's mind when one is not in control of the spell," Snape said, falling into lecture mode. "Such perceptions can be manipulated. Just as an Occlumens can refuse to let a Legilimens enter his mind around his shields, he can refuse to let those perceptions do the same thing, and thus resist being pulled along."

Harry half-closed his eyes. "So I'm resisting the spell or the person casting it, sir?"

"Both," said Snape. "Now. I want you to concentrate on that, practicing it, when next you feel up to it." He nodded curtly to Draco. "Come, Draco."

Draco blinked. "What--?"

"We should let Harry sleep."

Harry frowned at Snape. "It's only nine," he said. "I'll be able to stay awake for at least a little longer."

Snape simply waited, and a moment later, Harry's jaws cracked under a yawn. Harry sighed. "Yeah, all right," he said, and shoved regretfully at Draco's shoulder. "See you tomorrow."

Draco touched his forehead for a moment, as though checking for fever, and then nodded at him. "See you tomorrow, Harry. I'm so glad you're alive."

The last was a soft murmur, and before Harry could react properly, both Snape and Draco had left, Snape shutting the door firmly behind them. Harry stretched his arms and went to prepare for bed. At least tomorrow was the day the students arrived at Hogwarts, not the actual first day of school. That gave him some time to prepare.

And it's the day Skeeter's article comes out.

Harry's mouth twitched into a small smile. I thought time to prepare, not time to relax.

I have no idea why Snape had to tell you to go to bed, said Regulus abruptly. You're half-collapsing already. Go to sleep, and stop thinking ridiculous things like this.

Yes, Father, Harry said with sarcasm that not even Regulus could miss. He wouldn't call Regulus's nagging like a mother's, since that still brought up a bit too much pain.

Snape kept most of his attention tuned to the passive link between him and Harry as Draco, hardly needing the encouragement, chatted about the parts of his summer he'd spent with Harry at Lux Aeterna. He was in the middle of reliving a broom chase when Harry relaxed in Snape's mind, and he felt him lapse into sleep.

"Draco," said Snape, interrupting Draco mid-sentence and winning a glare for that. "I've been meaning to talk to you about something for a while now, something concerning you and Harry." Never mind that he had only noticed properly that day. Draco would believe in him more if he thought that Snape thought this was an ongoing problem.

"What is it?" Draco stood up at once, his body all but vibrating with tension. "Has he said something about me? Did I hurt him in some way, something that he can't tell me about face-to-face?"

Snape shook his head slightly. Yet more signs of obsession. He does not even strike close to the real truth. "No, Draco," he said, and made his voice be gentle with an effort. "It is related to you more than it is to Harry. I have become concerned over the amount of time and thought that you spend on him. You seem to have almost no life of your own, outside of him."

Draco stared at him, then blinked lightly. "That's not true, Professor Snape," he said. "I spent lots of time at home this summer. I played Quidditch by myself and with some of the other boys from Slytherin—Blaise and Vince came over all the time. Not Gregory, though," he added, with a faint frown. "I studied history and pureblood rituals with my mother. I tried saying thank you to house elves, but Harry's wrong about that, it just makes them burst out in tears. Except Dobby, but he's strange anyway."

"Then why do you never speak about the time that you have spent playing Quidditch or studying history with others?" Snape inquired. "Why does every word out of your mouth concern Harry?"

Draco shrugged impatiently. "Because the time I spent around him was just more interesting."

Snape nodded once. "That is one of the signs of obsession, Draco. Even in a simple statement about what else you have done this summer, you cannot keep Harry out of it. I have seen the way you look at him—"

Draco's shoulders stiffened so fast that Snape was left wondering what he had done. Draco's voice was low and harsh. "And you disapprove? You're going to act like some crusty old wizarding parent telling me that your son can't possibly love whom he wants to because he has to continue the line?"

"What?" Snape asked blankly. Then his brain caught up with his ears, and he scrutinized Draco, narrow-eyed.

It is worse than I thought, he concluded after a moment. The boy has a crush, but he's convinced that this is some kind of grand passion for the ages.

"Listen to me, Draco," he said quietly, and the force of his tone, more than what he said, he thought, pulled Draco's eyes to his. "I do want to see Harry happy. That much is true. But I do not want to see you sacrifice your own happiness, your freedom, for his. Neither would he want that. He has had enough of sacrifices in his life. And as you stand now, you could sacrifice everything for one smile from him and think it justified. I will not let that happen. What will happen if he chooses to love elsewhere?"

Draco's expression turned into mulishness blended with something else, something genuinely frightening. "He won't," Draco said, his voice a low hiss. "I've always been here. There's no one else that he cares for as much as he cares for me. Besides, it'll probably be a while before he can love anyone else that much. He told me that last year, that he'd never thought of anything beyond the end of the war but continuing to serve his brother. But when he can look around and choose on his own, I'm going to be there."

"So you'll wait until he notices you?" Snape asked, and shook his head when Draco nodded. "And you're going to act like some lovesick young witch in Spain pining for her lost true love to come back from the wars?"

"I am not like that." Draco was upset enough that Snape felt a stirring of power rise around him, promising a headache in a few moments. "You take that back. I do intend to win Harry's love if I can."

"You are thinking of permanence," Snape said quietly. "You are too young for such things, Draco. You are fourteen."

"You treat Harry like an adult." Draco folded his arms and scowled.

"Because he acts like one," said Snape, patience suddenly at an end. "Listen to me. I will watch you closely from now on. If you do not show some signs of independence by the end of September, then I will assure that you have it, whether you want it or not. Do you understand me?"

Draco just stared at him.

"I can assign detentions," said Snape. "And that is only the beginning."

"You don't have the right to do this," whispered Draco.

"And you don't have the right to choose to smother yourself beneath the clinging blanket of some crush—"

"It is not a crush—"

"—simply because you wish to," Snape finished. "I will not allow it, and Harry, if he notices, will not allow it."

"I don't want to tell him," Draco spat, his face turning crimson. "I don't want to tell him that his guardian's being an unreasonable, stubborn old wanker."

Snape raised an eyebrow and nodded once. "Very well. I will leave it up to you to tell him. You have until the end of October to do that."

"That's not fair—"

"Neither is what this crush might lead you to do, Draco, either to yourself or Harry," Snape cut him off. "Now, go get ready for bed."

Draco glared at him for a moment longer, but Snape had practiced, and received, much harsher glares than this young Malfoy was capable of. After a while, Draco went off to use the divan in Harry's room, muttering to himself under his breath.

Snape ground his teeth and moved off to create light wooden targets, so that he could take out the many frustrations of the day.

Why must I be the one to notice and take care of things that any reasonable parent should have noticed long since? Narcissa must have, though Lucius could be blind to such things. What did she think she was doing, encouraging the boy?

Albus finished reading the article on the front page of the Daily Prophet, and then put the paper down. His hands shook, very lightly. He did not allow himself to notice.

That's torn it.

For long moments, that was the only thought that would come to him. He sat in blankness of mind and stared out his window, past Fawkes's old perch. It was a magnificent day, brighter than it should be on the first of September, really, with the sun rising to embrace the sky. The children would be arriving that evening, and there were a thousand things to be done beforehand.

But, as well as being the Headmaster of the school, he was the Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, and those were the thoughts storming through his head, when they finally began to storm.

Harry cannot maintain peace. He cannot maintain a balance. He has already begun to change the wizarding world, and who knows when he will stop? The Wizengamot may not have been contacted and told that Fudge intended to pass new laws or that we were in a state of war, but those are minor offenses, ones that would at least leave the government of wizarding Britain intact. It might even have worked in our favor, because the preparations would be in place when our true war with Tom begins. I was willing to let those happen, as long as the wider public did not notice.

Instead, Harry tips the balance, and now nothing will be the same again.

Albus closed his eyes. The mornings when he felt too old for politics were rare, but this had decided to be one of them. He could feel every ache in his joints, the faint stiffness in his back that not even long nights on a soft mattress could cure, the desire to simply sit back and hand off any important decisions to someone else. That last was an especially dangerous desire, because there was no one who could take up the decisions and confidently handle them.

Harry, his mind reminded him.

Never Harry, he answered firmly. He is probably going to be vates, I must admit, and he was the one who deflected Voldemort's Killing Curse. I can allow him no other role than that, not when his first political move in public is as disastrous as this one is. There were a thousand more graceful ways that he could have handled his abduction. Instead, he crashes through long years of elegant, hard work like a gorgon in a china shop.

I must distract him from participating in the larger political life of the wizarding world.

And Albus thought he knew the perfect distraction. He stood and turned to the chest behind his desk, which held various of his Pensieves that he had arranged in neat alphabetical order. His hand hovered over the M section, and then pulled out the Pensieve labeled, in neat letters, My time with Falco Parkinson.

James had just unfolded the Daily Prophet when he felt the tingle in the wards that announced an owl coming through. He waited for a moment, and was beyond surprised to see Hedwig skim through a window and land on the table in front of him, hooting urgently. James unbound the letters, noted the different names on them, and laid them gently down on the table. Neither Remus nor Connor was awake yet; they'd had a hard, final dueling session last night, since Remus wouldn't be able to train him for at least another few months.

"Thank you, Hedwig," he said, offering her a bit of the bacon from his plate in reward. "I'll be sure to read them in a moment." He went back to unfolding the paper.

Hedwig hit him on the head with a wing. James ducked and eyed her. Hedwig went on dancing and leaping, her hoots growing more urgent.

Ah, she wants more bacon. James handed her a larger piece. The snowy owl was engaged in swallowing it for a moment, and meanwhile, James was able to take a bite of his porridge and unfold his paper in peace.

A moment later, his porridge sprayed across the front page.

James sat back, put the paper on the table, closed his eyes, and rubbed his face. Several times. He rubbed circles on his forehead, his cheeks, his chin, and his throat. It was a calming exercise his grandmother had taught him. When he asked what it was for, she'd said, tartly, "To deal with unruly children."

When he looked again, though, the story was still there, and Hedwig was tilting her head to glare at him with one golden eye, as if to say, "You should have opened the letter when I told you to."

James shook his head and read the article, carefully. Then he slit the letter that bore his name open and looked at it.

Dear Dad:

I know that you might have seen the article by the time you read this. I'm sorry. I've told Hedwig to deliver it as fast as she can.

I was abducted by the Minister, but I'm fine. I was going to keep quiet about it at first, but I was convinced by a friend that I wanted to spread the word. I know that reporters might descend on you now. I'm sorry about that.

You can tell them that you don't know anything more than what's in the article. That might be best.

I promise, Dad, that I'm fine, and that Professor Snape's vigilance, or lack of it, had nothing to do with the abduction. The Hounds said they were from the Ministry, that I'd broken a few laws to do with use of Parseltongue, and that they wanted me to come along with them. One of them even assured me that I'd be allowed to bring Snape along, and then snapped me up in a Side Along Apparition before he could get near enough.

I've missed you, but I thought there must be a reason that you weren't writing to me this summer, that you were angry at me, or angry at Professor Snape, and wouldn't reply, so I didn't. I hope that you do reply to this letter. I'd still like us to be a family, Dad. I felt a little too crowded this summer, but perhaps we could try with Christmas?

Love,

Harry.

James sat back and loosed a long, angry, hissing breath. Harry's letter rambled a bit, but it included several things that James had longed to hear: that he still wanted to be part of the family, that he was fine, that he was sorry for possibly involving James and Connor and Remus with reporters.

But that wasn't enough to distract James from the obvious, something that should have been obvious even to Harry.

Snape still failed him as a guardian. Harry was kidnapped right in front of him, and he didn't do anything to stop it.

James shook his head and stood. He should have done this long since, not given up after one attempt, but he had had Connor to look after and Harry to brood about. Now Connor was going back to school, and Harry wanted to be part of the family again, and James could concentrate on getting one over on his enemy.

He was going straight to the Department of Magical Family and Child Services, to insure that he got custody of his son back.

"Sir! Sir! Please come quickly!"

Rufus carefully put down his morning cup of tea, and considered hexing whoever was beyond the door. Then he reminded himself that everyone in the Auror Office knew enough not to disturb him during his morning cup of tea, and more likely than not, that meant it was something truly urgent.

Drawing his wand, he strode across his office and opened the door. A young Auror with vividly pink hair and an unfamiliar face stood there. Thanks to the hair, Rufus recognized her anyway.

"Auror Tonks," he said. "Is something the matter?"

"The Minister, sir! He's screaming in his office, and sometimes sobbing!" Tonks waved her hands in agitated circles, taking a step back, and tripped over a chair. She promptly smashed into Auror Mallory's desk, and upset the inkwell. Rufus closed his eyes in resignation as ink dripped onto her hair. Tonks continued in a more subdued tone. "Sorry, sir. But he sounds like he's in pain, and we can't open the door."

"Coming," said Rufus, with a slight growl, and locked his office behind him. The one time he hadn't done that, someone had stolen his tea. Rufus could not abide people who stole his tea.

He followed Tonks grumpily across the office, and everyone found a reason to be elsewhere. Of course, it seemed as though a good many of his people were already missing. Rufus shook his head and snorted. All pounding on the Minister's door and telling him pretty please to let them through?

"Why hasn't someone opened the damn door with a Blasting Curse?" he asked Tonks, as they reached the lifts.

The young woman gave him a glance of terrified admiration. "Sir? That spell's illegal."

"Doesn't tell me why they haven't used it," Rufus muttered, and rubbed discreetly at his hip. He was almost sixty years old, and on a morning before his tea, no matter how bright and warm the day was, the old injury that had given him his limp flared up. Crises simply shouldn't happen before there's tea.

"The door's, uh, locked with some sort of spell that reacts when we try anything more violent than an Alohomora." Tonks shrugged helplessly and, stumbling as she got into the lift, managed to press the buttons for all the levels. "Sorry, sir."

"It's all right," said Rufus, and leaned on the lift wall. The gentler way down was better for his hip, anyway.

When they reached the level of the Minister's office, Tonks took the lead, as though Rufus might not know where it was. Rufus strode—he strode, he did not limp—after her, muttering under his breath.

He found the Aurors clustered around in front of the Minister's door, timidly knocking and calling. Rufus stepped past them and laid his wand on the door.

"Alohomorana," he murmured. It was a variation on the Opening Spell that his grandmother Leonora had taught him. She was Muggleborn, with no sense of pureblood pride at all, and had always proclaimed that there was no reason for doors to be locked among family, which had led to a string of embarrassing incidents when Rufus's father was sixteen or so.

He opened the door.

The volume of noise was instant and terrific. There must have been silencing charms worked into the wood of the door itself, Rufus thought, sagging back and struggling not to put his hands over his ears.

Once he made out what the noise was about, though, his grumpiness vanished, and he wanted to cackle like his grandmother.

"—NEVER BEEN SO EMBARRASSED BY ANYTHING IN MY LIFE! I WOULD MOVE TO FRANCE IF I WERE ASSURED THEIR GOVERNMENT WAS ANY BETTER! NO, WAIT, IT COULDN'T POSSIBLY BE WORSE! I THINK I'LL BEGIN PACKING AS SOON AS POSSIBLE! AT LEAST THEIR MINISTER DOESN'T ABDUCT INNOCENT CHILDREN WITHOUT TWIRLING HIS MOUSTACHE FIRST, I SHOULDN'T THINK!"

Rufus watched in amusement as that particular Howler tore itself to pieces, only to be followed by another from the growing pile on the Minister's desk. This voice, Rufus happened to recognize from the meeting in his office yesterday. Hawthorn Parkinson did a good imitation of outrage, he thought.

"I AM STUNNED, STUNNED AND APPALLED! I HAVE NEVER HEARD OF SUCH A LOW INCIDENT IN MY LIFE, MINISTER! ARE NONE OF OUR CHILDREN SAFE IN THEIR BEDS? WILL YOU SEND YOUR HOUNDS AFTER MY DAUGHTER? THAT POOR INNOCENT BOY! I THINK IT IS TIME THAT WIZARDING BRITAIN HAD A NEW MINISTER!"

Fudge was huddling at his desk in the midst of it all, whimpering softly.

Rufus cleared his throat in the pause between Parkinson's Howler ending and another starting. Fudge looked up at him hopefully.

"That was a complicated locking charm," said Rufus, and then he shut the door and let the spell snap back into place.

He turned to his team and shook his head solemnly. "Too bad that we couldn't rescue the poor man," he said. "At least now we know they were only Howlers."

"But why?" asked Auror Mallory, her pretty face concerned. "I don't understand what all of them were yelling about."

"Read the front page of the Daily Prophet," Rufus told her, and strode back towards his office, his mood lighter than it had been without his tea in a long time. Of course, knowing that he was going back to his tea helped.

And after that, I can start digging.

When he got back to his office, he had a second pleasant surprise waiting for him, besides his tea. Two of his people stood with a third held between them, his head dangling sullenly. He looked up when Rufus neared, and Rufus recognized him as Gamaliel Gorgon, one of the sacked Aurors that Fudge had been using as his so-called Hounds.

"Crup, I presume?" Rufus asked indulgently.

Gorgon sagged.

"What's so interesting about the front page, Mother?" Blaise covered a yawn with one hand. Her darling son had always had such exquisite manners, Arabella Zabini thought fondly. Of course, she had been the one to teach him, and not any of her husbands, which was probably the reason. "I didn't think you found much of interest in the Daily Prophet normally."

"This," said Arabella simply, and passed over the paper so that he could see. She herself had already read the article four times, with each pass looking for a different layer of meaning, and believed she had found them all. Her lips seemed permanently fixed in a smile this morning. Clever boy.

And it makes that letter I received yesterday all the more pathetic.

Blaise blinked at the headline and said, "Goddamn."

"Blaise," Arabella chided, looking around the sitting room. She had worked hard to find all the prettiest portraits for her little home. Unfortunately, many of those pretty portraits were easily offended high society witches, and they were turning now to glare at Blaise. "Language."

"Sorry, sorry," her son muttered, and went back to reading. When he looked up, his eyes were narrowed. "Do you really think—I mean, did this really happen?"

"At least some of it did, my darling," said Arabella. "After all, I do not believe that either Potter or Skeeter are stupid enough to create a story that could be so easily disproved."

Blaise nodded, his eyes glowing. "Will this mean a new Minister?"

"That is the least of what it will mean." Arabella leaned over and kissed his forehead. "Now go get your breakfast from the house elves, and we'll discuss this further when you come back. I don't want you halfway to falling asleep when we do."

"Yes, Mother," said Blaise, with a perfect little bow of his head, and trotted to the kitchens.

Arabella chuckled at the article and then moved towards her writing desk. Yes, she did think, rather, that answering the letter with a regretful negative was the wiser course.

Not to mention that I may have something of my own to offer in an alliance with Potter, while this other would make me only a servant.

Her gaze brushed across the shelf of books written in Parseltongue, and then back to the writing desk, at which she sat with a stretch of her hands and a toss of her long, dark hair.

It was a glorious morning to be alive.

"Here they come."

Harry rolled his eyes at Draco's statement of the obvious, but nodded. "Here they come," he repeated, and locked his eyes on the carriages rolling towards Hogwarts's front doors. At the corner of his vision, the tiny lighted boats carrying the first-years bobbed across the lake.

The carriages were all drawn by thestrals, who snorted and tossed their wings when Harry looked at them. Harry looked uneasily away again. He hadn't yet spoken to any thestrals, and suspected he wouldn't be able to without help. He wondered what they would want from him, what kind of freedom they would ask.

It probably depends on why they're bound, doesn't it?

Well, whatever it is, it can't be any worse than the letters I've received.

Harry winced. He had not foreseen that Skeeter's article would result in a flood of post of his own. He'd had a few Howlers, accusing him of being an attention-seeker, but far fewer than he thought he would. And there were countless outpourings of sympathy, boxes of Chocolate Frogs, offers to adopt him and keep him safe, declarations of outrage that the Minister would kidnap an innocent child, sniffling admirations of his bravery, and on and on. Harry was beginning to think that Skeeter had played up the angle of his innocence and his youth too much.

The lead carriage had just about reached them—Harry and Draco stood not far in front of the entrance to the school—when Regulus snarled in his head. Harry turned at once, spinning a complete circle and letting his hand fall to his sleeve, where he carried his wand, by reflex. "What is it?"

Death Eater, Regulus snarled. One. Come through a hole in the wards.

Harry felt his own lips part in a snarl. He had thought that Dumbledore had found and sealed all the holes in the Hogwarts anti-Apparition wards that Sirius had torn or told the Death Eaters about last year, but it seemed he'd missed one.

He turned to face the carriages again, and then saw her, Bellatrix Lestrange, laughing loudly and absurdly. She stood beside an open carriage, one arm linked around the throat of a pretty, black-haired girl in Ravenclaw robes. The girl was gasping and struggling to fight back, but Bellatrix muttered something, with a wave of her wand, and she went limp.

"Harry!" Bellatrix screamed, her voice thin and quite mad. "Murderer! Are you going to face me? Or shall I have all the babies?" She smiled at the children still in the carriage, and their shrieks of terror rose, blending with cries from elsewhere. "Mine to pluck like ripe fruit, aren't they, yes?"

Harry moved slowly forward, his hands clearly spread in front of him. He felt Draco at his right shoulder, and snapped, "Stay back." Draco halted, flinching.

Harry faced Bellatrix, noting the way she held her hostage in front of her, so that she had a human shield against most of the hexes and jinxes that Harry might throw. She was also handy with a Shield Charm, come to that. Harry's mind was racing now, filled with fury and filled with disgust. What kind of tactic is it, to involve children in our fight?

"You want me, Bellatrix," he said. "I'm the only one you want. Let her go, and you can have me."

He heard Draco let out an anguished cry, but Bellatrix's laughter overrode it. "Little boy," she whispered. "Harry. Child. I know exactly how to hurt you, and letting this baby go isn't it."

Harry waited, waited, waited. He had the answer now, since he didn't think Bellatrix was any good with wandless magic. But he needed her to move her wand away from the Ravenclaw girl's throat, and he also needed to make sure that she retreated, instead of just grabbing hold of her hostage, as she would if he simply disarmed her. He decided to try a taunt. He snorted. "And do you really think you can take me, Bella?" he asked. "I destroyed your lord and your husband easily enough. In fact, I only had to strike once to destroy them both."

Bellatrix snarled and jerked, extending her wand towards him.

Harry narrowed his focus to her hand, her wand, and thought as hard as he could, compelling the spell to follow to a single point.

Sectumsempra!

Snape's cutting spell flew. Harry could feel its tense soaring across the grass between him and Bellatrix, and had a moment to reflect that if he had misjudged, it would also slice the Ravenclaw girl to shreds—

He had not misjudged.

Bellatrix's right arm exploded in a fountain of blood, her right hand and wand flying free. Harry saw the jagged slice of bone, severed to stick out of the stump that had been her right wrist. Bellatrix screamed and staggered back, lost in the pain, releasing her hostage as she moved.

Harry didn't hesitate. "Wingardium Leviosa!"

The Ravenclaw girl skimmed towards him, past the wheels of the carriage, and Harry caught her and laid her gently on the ground. Then he lifted his eyes back to Bellatrix, certain that she would retreat, but ready to give battle if she did not.

Bellatrix stared back at him, clutching the ruin of her right arm, and Harry had never seen such pure hatred in anyone's eyes before.

"My Lord will have you," she whispered. "And I will."

Then she Apparated out.

Harry let out a harsh gasp and bent over the Ravenclaw girl, hearing Draco come up behind him as he slapped her cheeks. Her eyes fluttered and opened as Bellatrix's sleeping spell loosed its hold on her.

"Hush," Harry told her gently when she opened her mouth to scream. "She's gone. You're safe now."

The girl nodded shakily at him and sat up. "Did you rescue me?" she whispered, and Harry nodded again. "Thank you."

Harry had time to give her a smile and step away from her before someone's hand clasped him firmly on the shoulder, a clasp just this side of pain, and an unfamiliar voice said, "What's this, then?"