THAT WAS HER… THAT'S HER VOICE

like i share my voice to the wind / it hears me as i want it to / it listens to every syllable / reaching deeper into my thoughts / my darkest secrets -- the crave for the last of my days / pity for myself; pity for the shadow that has become of me -- "eleven"

~*~*~*~

CHAPTER TWO: Piercing Screams of Memories

Hermione awoke in a sudden. She felt as if she had been running for miles. All summer long, she always had that feeling that she had been somewhere else… somewhere she couldn't remember. And it had always felt that a huge portion of her memory had been erased – like a dream that she knew she had but couldn't quite recall.

She had been like this for a month now. Always that uneasy feeling that she had forgotten something. She had performed too many spells and drank many potions to help her recollect anything that she had forgotten. But she always ended up remembering only those little details that she had been putting aside – like owling a friend or cleaning her room.

She never told any one about this. Because she knew that there were more important matters to deal with than this certain unexplainable gap in her memory.

"What was I doing on the nineteenth of July?" she found herself asking one day when she felt that it was a justifiable excuse for a conversation.

Ron looked from the book he was scanning and up at her like she had lost her mind. "Are you sure you're all right, Hermione?"

"I'm just asking…" she said as she wrote profusely on the parchment lying in front of her.

Ron looked over to what she was doing but Hermione pulled the parchment back. "Are you starting a diary?"

"A journal, actually," Hermione replied after a reluctant pause.

"Well, there's no use in recalling everything you've done for the last month, is there? We've been here… reading all these books and Harry's…" his voice trailed and faded into a whisper. "Harry's been more than determined to find out where You-Know-Who is," he continued, glancing at Harry who had just finished talking with someone through the fireplace.

They were gathered in Number Four Privet Drive's kitchen table learning more magic than they had accumulated for the last six years in Hogwarts. It was like Dumbledore's Army all over again; only this time, it didn't involve simple incantations or defence spells… they were preparing for a real battle. The Dursleys – although paranoid to their minds – had consented to this daily assembly of Harry, Hermione, the Weasleys, and other Hogwarts students in their home through the permission of Aunt Petunia, who up until now wouldn't say a word about her intentions of this matter.

"Another witch is reported missing," Harry said as he approached his friends. He appeared tired and it was understandable to all of them but Harry had not been eating much nor sleeping. He was fuelled by the thought of retribution he was seeking. "She's a Muggleborn. It's even on the Muggle news," he continued, clutching the back of the chair in front of him. Another Muggleborn witch was missing. This was the fifth in two months. The tension was getting more intense and Harry more agitated. His eyes dawned on Hermione as everyone else's in the room.

"I'm going to be fine," Hermione said when she felt that everybody wasn't just looking at her. She could see that they were worrying about her – especially Harry.

Harry let out an audible sign. He sat on the chair he had been leaning on and said to Hermione, "Maybe –"

"No way!" Hermione insisted even before Harry could finish his sentence. "I'm going to continue helping. Besides, I still think it's much safer here in your house than anywhere else –"

Everyone in the room sprung in surprise when a loud ringing echoed in the air.

"Really… I don't think I'm ever gonna get used to that," Ron said, clutching his chest.

Hermione rolled her eyes. "It's just the phone, Ron," she said, as she stood up to get it. She picked up the receiver and was about to greet hello when a sudden pang hit her like a sharp object grazing through her inner arm. She dropped the phone. "Ah!"

* * * * *

The glass he was holding fell mercilessly to the floor and broke into jagged pieces. Draco's face creased in pain as he swallowed the sensation of a blade scraping through his skin. He pulled up his right sleeve expecting blood to be seeping right out of him. But no… there wasn't a trickle of blood. Just the shadows of four serrated lines, which seemed to be becoming more evident as each day passed.

It started with a forgettable dream. But unlike most that contentedly rested in the recesses of one's memories, Draco's dreams were soon as vivid as he was right there. And now, for the first time, he actually felt the sting of the blade against his skin like he was doing it on his own accord. Then, as if lightning flared blindingly in his eyes, he put his hands on his head as visions flashed in his mind.

"What am I doing here?!"

"I should ask you the same thing."

"You're bleeding."

"That'll heal."

"What have you done to yourself?"

"Stop!"

"What am I doing here?!"

"How did you Apparate in here?"

"You did something to me."

"Speak now!"

"If you can kill – you would've done so –"

"DO NOT!"

"…you would've done so when Voldemort asked you."

"DO NOT SPEAK OF THAT!"

"…when Voldemort asked you."

"DO NOT SPEAK OF THAT!"

"Were you expecting death, Malfoy?"

Draco dropped into a chair as the whirlwind of visions continued to haunt him.

"What were you doing?"

"Do you know why?!"

"…Trying to call upon redemption?"

"You bound yourself to me!"

"Were you expecting death, Malfoy?"

For a split second, Draco's mind cleared. But he tried to catch his head when the visions started again.

"This is the Blade of Deliverance."

"…Governed by a power far superior than any charm."

"Deliverance."

"This isn't magic, Draco."

"As far as this dagger is concerned…"

"I'm not even going to ask why it's in the possession of the most morally corrupt family I know…"

"…you are nothing."

"You obviously don't know how this works, do you?"

"…you are nothing but another soul seeking for salvation."

"Lost soul."

"This doesn't recognise magic."

"…seeking for salvation."

* * * * *

Draco fell breathlessly back in his chair. He recognised the room in his vision as the same room he was sitting in right then. But he could not get around on who was the person speaking to him. It was a woman. But he couldn't distinguish the face. Yet, the voice sounded so familiar to him. He tried to remember the voice. But all he could hear right then were the voices of people he wanted to forget.

His mother. This he wished would no longer haunt him. His mother cared for him up until she was captured into Azkaban by the Ministry. Although she was cruel to her enemies… she cared for him.

His father. There was never any affection shown between the two of them… but he respected his father. Everything he believed in was taught to him by his father.

However, now, in his solace, he started to question where his convictions were truly grounded. Did he actually believe everything what his family stood for? Or was he just blindly following what was dictated to him? Harsher than an unlawful decree… was this really the truth that lay in him?

He didn't know.

His faith had become so thin that he was hanging on to so little… The capture of his family into Azkaban had left him alone yet hunted. In the manor that he had called his home he hid for he no longer had anywhere else to go. This place used to feel safe like a fortress where nobody could as much as lay a finger on him. But now, it was betraying him like a bastion of treachery. This house was no longer secure. Anyone from the minions of the Dark Lord could Apparate inside and snatch him at any time. Or at the call of Voldemort… he should come to him. Because he was supposed to be one of them now – after he supposedly killed Dumbledore. He was supposed to be linked to them as if the same blood ran in their veins… but why did this cause him fear…? Wasn't this what he wanted? Wasn't this what he had been waiting? To be called upon by the Dark Lord himself and blemish his skin with the Dark Mark – the mark of Death Eaters.

He was deep in thought trying to remember where he had heard that voice from his vision. Yet the silence of his empty house was disturbed when a loud scream of terrible fright echoed around him – or maybe it was in his mind? He looked up and around expecting to find someone else standing in the room. That was her… he thought. That's her voice.

And yet… he was alone.

* * * * *

Harry turned his head towards Hermione just when the phone dropped with a loud clatter. "What's wrong?" he asked as he, Ron, and Ginny gathered around her.

"Nothing," Hermione replied, clutching her right arm. She couldn't understand if she could feel burning or cutting of her skin but she knew that she wasn't imagining pain. "I just…" she said through gritted teeth as she struggled to pull up her sleeve.

"Are you all right, Hermione?" Ginny asked in a worried tone as she watched Harry and Ron help Hermione with her shirt. Then, she remembered the phone and picked it up from the floor.

"What was it?" Harry asked again; seeing now that there was nothing wrong with Hermione's arm.

"I don't know."

"Aah…" Harry flinched, suddenly touching his forehead.

"All right, Harry?" Ron asked him; his face contorted in worry. "First Hermione, and now you. Well, yours is scarier… I mean…"

Harry looked out the window, expecting a battalion of Death Eaters gathering around his house. His scar only hurt when Voldemort was near him. Fortunately, there was no one of those sorts outside.

"Mum, slow down," they all heard Ginny say as she spoke on the phone. She looked at Ron then at Harry. Then at Hermione.

"What's wrong now?" Ron muttered when Ginny's face remained with a shocked expression.

"It's the Death Eaters. Mum said they're moving," she said softly; her eyes on the floor.

Several shocked expressions resonated in the room followed by buzzing and whisperings among them. George stood up and grabbed the phone from Ginny, thinking that he had to hear it for himself.

"Moving? Where?" Harry demanded, looking at Ginny as if her face could provide him answers. "Voldemort must be with them. He must be," Harry started, his voice was rising. He paced out of the kitchen and into the living room wondering what to do. "We should go now."

"Harry, we can't be too hasty now," Hermione said, trying to calm him down.

Harry stopped and went back into the kitchens glaring at her. "Hermione… I have waited long enough. And that did nothing but kill the people I care about. We can't just stay here and bury ourselves in these books!" he yelled, shoving some of the books on the table onto the floor. He waited for a second but neither Hermione nor anyone else in the room spoke up.

Harry took the Floo Powder from inside a cupboard. He pulled out his wand and went back into the living room.

Hermione didn't protest for something else had caught her attention. One of the books that Harry scattered on the floor landed on her foot and opened at a page bearing a very familiar picture… She picked it up knowing that she had seen this before. It was a sword… or some sort of spear. "'The Spear of Reprieve,'" she whispered, reading the caption underneath the picture.

The Spear of Reprieve is claimed to be the spear forged in the seas of the West seven hundred years ago by the spirits of the four elements summoned by a man who sought absolution for his crime-stained soul. Later, the spear has become known as the Blade of Deliverance because of its powers to purge even the most darkest of phantoms who beseech the grace of forgiveness.

According to its legend, the spear does not divide between Wizards or Muggles and so it is believed that its powers originated not from magic but by something paramount and more ancient than wizarding sorcery. In fact, many wizard scholars actually presume true that the spear was born in the hands of a Muggle and has passed through the possessions of influential leaders – both magical and non-magical – throughout the ages.

However, the actual authenticity of the spear's existence is still in question and many wizards and witches debate against the idea that an object with this type of power could have been made through a Muggle medium. Supporting their speculation is the want of strongly grounded accounts of the spear.

A number of wizards and witches have tried finding the evanescent blade; performing summoning spells and séances to call upon the object. But none of whom has ever come forward claiming that they have the Blade of Deliverance in their possession. Rumours surfaced telling the destruction of the spear in the 18th century but it is also said that the blade is now in the hands of a very wealthy wizarding family; yet there has been no definitive version of its whereabouts.

Although the blade is known to mend a person's spirit, there is no accounting for the process it takes to achieve this. Because there has always been a vague and almost inexistent evidence of the blade and its purpose, there is no single narration of the steps taken in order to purge one's quintessence. However, the most common theory states that the person's life force is elemental in the formula. This, as presumed, means that an immense amount of the person's own blood is to be proffered with the spear's aid; as an incantation, believed to be carved on the dagger itself, is recited.

Thus far, this is where the tale of the Spear of Reprieve stops. For this reason, the only other theory as strong as its non-existence is that which states that mortals who have sought the powers of the Blade retain no memory of what they have done or the events that ensued on their road to deliverance.

Hermione only pulled away from her trance when she was accidentally shoved by George, who was hurrying towards the living room. She followed him remembering that Harry was quickly becoming hysterical.

And as surely, Harry was standing in front of the fireplace, as he was about to remove the protection they had cast on it to prevent unwanted guests coming in through the Floo Network when George, phone still in his hand, interrupted him.

"All ports of transportation should remain closed."

Harry looked at him murderously. "What?!" But he didn't wait for an answer. "Then, we have to Disapparate," he said again. He raised his wand in the air this time so to remove the barrier they placed during meetings that nobody could Apparate or Disapparate unexpectedly.

"Harry, all ports for transportation should remain closed," George repeated. And when Harry looked at him like he was going to perform an Unforgivable – "Don't look at me. It's my mother. Well, it's the Death Eaters actually," he said, taking a step back. "They're guarding every mode of wizard transportation. They're likely in the Floo Network. And when you remove that shield… It's very likely that Death Eaters are just waiting for it. Er… Mum," he started speaking to Mrs Weasley on the other line. Lately, they had been talking through the telephone, which would be harder for magical folks to detect making it the safest way to communicate. "And how do you suppose we get out?" He paused for a couple of seconds and then, "We're not staying here!"

"Give me that," Fred grabbed the receiver from George and started, "Mum, we're not little tots anymore. As you may have noticed lately, everyone in the family's taller than you. Even Ginny! Now, we can't Disapparate, we can't use the Floo Network… do you expect us to Expecto Patronum our ways out of here…?"

* * * * *

Draco looked out the window trying to prove to himself that he wasn't going insane. He heard a woman scream. And that was all there was to it. But instead of a woman, he saw hooded shadows Apparating around the manor grounds as if materialising from black winds.

And knowing that they were being watched, they all looked up at the window. Every single one of them was masked but they knew that Draco could tell them apart one by one…

He was going to be one of them.

Death Eaters.

"My child…" An icy slithering voice suddenly spoke.

Draco turned around, startled. That was another voice he wished would never visit him again. He didn't know if he should kneel or bow down. He was frozen in his place as he clutched the window sill behind him tightly.

Lord Voldemort's face contorted into what could only be described as a smile as he looked at Draco with his livid scarlet eyes. "I see the House-elves are no good in keeping you well, Draco…" He paced towards Draco as his eyes looked around him as if memorising the place. "I assure you that your parents are going to be rightfully rewarded for their loyalty. Wouldn't it be just pleasing to greet them as a marked servant of the Dark Lord…?"

* * * * *

Harry raised his wand. He didn't care if the house was suddenly filled with Death Eaters once he lifted the protective spell. He would've been glad for he heed not find them this time around. All he needed was to have them where he was – face to face.

"Harry! Wait!" Hermione yelled again as she advanced towards him.

But Harry wasn't listening anymore. He became deaf to everything else. All he could hear now was the constant beating of his heart – bursting in anger. "Amoveo Defendo!"

And then there was silence.

Everyone looked around them anxiously – waiting for the Death Eaters to Apparate inside to try and kill them all. But then, in the midst of the deafening stillness, Hermione gasped quietly in her place and almost dropped her wand. That sensation of a sharp object grazing through her inner arm hit her again like hot melted wax dripping from unseen sources. But this time, she tried to ignore it knowing that there were more dangers lurking than imaginary blades cutting her.

Suddenly, the already grey skies became much darker as blankets of clouds whirled overhead. It seemed that the early evening instantly became the witching hours of the night. All of them looked outside Number Four expecting Death Eaters at any moment. The wind was becoming stronger that the neighbours went back inside their houses and closed all windows and doors. But instead of masked, hooded figures materialising in the streets…

Familiar faces appeared one by one almost looking like a legion of Apparating wizards and witches.

Harry recognised them. He recognised them all. The Order of the Phoenix. And all he could feel right then was disappointment. He was expecting the enemy. Not this. He marched outside the house and confronted the first person he could reach. "Where are they? Where's the Death Eaters?"

"We need to get inside," Remus Lupin, the man standing closest to Harry, replied.

"Get inside?!" Harry screamed angrily. "All of you just Apparated in the open and now you want to get inside? Where are they?"

"They disappeared, Harry…" Tonks, the woman standing just behind Remus, spoke up, as she slowly approached Harry.

"What do you mean they disappeared? They can't disappea—!"

"We can't locate them. They have entered an Unplottable area," Tonks replied.

~*~*~*~

tonight when dreams don't even allow me to dream / when all i have is the haunting of the grim / the sweetest lullabies that carried me to my years / are now fading rhymes that dragged me here… -- "farewell me"