A/N: Note to readers: I confess that I could not bear to include what happens in this chapter with what happened in the last. I split them into two. -- Ariadne


Of Masks and Mirrors (III)

His arm brushed the mark on her chest, and the Dark Mark flared to life.

Hermione felt him tense. "The wards or the Mark?"

"The Mark," he said grimly, sitting up, his moves agile, lithe, precise.

A few subtle wand movements and a fully-robed Death Eater stood before her, reaching a gloved hand out to help her stand.

Unnerved, Hermione nonetheless accepted the offered hand. Something pressed into her palm - something sharp, flat, and metal.

"It's a two-way mirror with a Protean Charm, Hermione – I Charmed it this afternoon. Use it if you need to; mine is attuned only to myself. It's safe," he paused, then muttered, "As much as anything can be."

Mind awhirl, she nodded mutely, her skin growing cold, her heart growing colder.

He reached for her face, but hesitated. She clasped his hand and pressed it to her cheek, the leather glove hard, her eyes searching his masked face for the man behind it.

"After the initial release, one often finds that subtlety has its own, even greater rewards, Hermione. Watch the parchment."

With those enigmatic words, he Disapparated.

Reaching for her clothing, she looked at the piece of metal she held – a half-circle with one sharp, slightly jagged edge. In the dim light it was difficult to be certain, but it seemed to bear the unmistakable impression of once having had tines. A fork! She shook her head in wonder, then was brought up short as two things happened simultaneously: her brain kicked into full gear and her knees gave out.

Okay… Breathe… Holding her clothes in a jumbled pile, she collapsed gracelessly onto the nearest chair. Breathe, Granger. No, okay, that wasn't happening. This wasn't happening. That did not just happen. And it was certainly not going to happen again…

Liar.

A very small, very old smile played across her lips. One that would have frightened even a Gringotts goblin.

A few minutes later, fully dressed, she turned to the table where the dark red light from parchment was still pulsing its tell-tale rhythm.

No. She screwed her eyes shut, and resisted the urge to curl into a ball. A voice, an echo out of memory, saying, "I won't be there to help you."

"No, of course not." Then she winced. If Severus could go from… what had happened straight to a Death Eater meeting - Please be okay - then she could face what awaited her on the parchment. One name. The first of - "One at a time, Hermione. One at a time." She stared at the cool metal in her hands, then clenched her fist around it – "The small pain…" - and stood.

She walked slowly to the table, drew a deep breath, and looked down.

There, on the parchment, the ink whorls had resolved.

Molly Prewett Weasley.

Hermione clenched the metal in her fist, and a trickle of blood seeped between her fingers.

/x/

Somewhere else, a low tone sounded like a gong in his mind, a coppery taste filled his mouth. Severus' eyes narrowed behind his mask. She had seen the first name. He had a good idea whose it was.

Lucius Malfoy spotted the look and mistook it for anticipation. Malfoy clapped his fellow Death Eater on the back and joined a knot of others, clustered by a stone table.

Schooling his eyes to their customary blankness, Severus followed. The plans for the evening had not yet been revealed.

/x/

Hermione reached blindly for the chair. She shoved the offending parchment away - Evil! Vile! - and buried her head in her arms.

/x/

A rustle of robes in a circle of Darkness.

The plans were in motion.

The owl had flown.

They watched, and waited, poised to kill.

/x/

The tears would not come. She sat up, dazed, and automatically began to straighten her notes. To a casual observer, she might have been packing up her homework in the Gryffindor Common Room.

/x/

The owl's wings beat a harsh, slow rhythm in the misty air.

/x/

They waited.

/x/

She reached for fresh parchment.

The fourth... Her eyes screwed shut involuntarily. You can do this, Granger. You have to do this.

/x/

A dark house.

An owl at a window.

A lighted wand.

Trembling hands breaking a seal; a wash of tears on cheeks; joy in the eyes of a mother long shunned.

"Oh, Percy."

/x/

The cloaks rustled in a rising wind.

/x/

Voldemort's fourth Horcrux… "I can't!" Hermione screamed.

Mrs. Black's portrait muttered in her sleep. Otherwise, Grimmauld Place did not answer.

/x/

A steady beat of wings, a blasphemous excitement, a collective will bent toward…

A series of pops as the cloaked figures Disapparated.

One lingered for a fraction longer than the others, drawing on recent memory. A streak of icy blue-white, and he, too, was gone.

The circle was empty.

/x/

The jackal exploded into the library, a blazing white light, a shout: "LEAKY CAULDRON! NOW!"

And then the library too was empty. No movement, no sound, save the rustle of a lone piece of parchment as it drifted to the floor.