The Friend of the Boy Who Lived

Daphne Greengrass was snapped awake. Vitriol aflame in twilight ran through her veins!

"Harry Potter!" she snarled. "If you stun me, I'm going to absolutely murderAH!"

Anger, hours old and growing still, boiled in her like an overheated potion-filled cauldron, only to frizzle out when the subjects of her rage were nowhere to be found. Coming to after being brought to sleep from the Stunning Spell was unlike simply going to sleep and waking up. There was no sort of run-up to awareness. No lethargic, slowly rising energy. No threshold where you sort of swirled in-between the subconscious and the fully awake.

You were just… transported from one moment to the next.

If Daphne had to describe it – it was like time travel. Or what she thought of as time travel. You simply snapped from one moment into the next – an indefinite amount of time would pass and only a second – or so it felt – would have passed for you.

And it was quite clear that more than a second had passed since Harry had stunned her. Of that there was no doubt. Harry Potter and Ron Weasley were no longer in front of her. Though it seemed that just about everybody else were.

Daphne, mind awhirl, snapped to attention as she beheld the commotion around her – it had just been completely empty…

The Common Room was filled with students, most still in their pyjamas, hurdled together, whispering, yelling, shuffling around as if waiting for something. There was a tangible sense of danger between them – it hung like a mark in the air.

And then there was the alarm. This giant, reverberating sound that echoed and filled the small space in the air not filled with murmurs and yells and whispers. Bells ringing the danger in flight.

It took a second – a by-product of being awaken by magical force into a world that was so very different than it was a couple of hours ago – for her to grasp in any sense that time had passed without her notice.

"What – what's going on?" She muttered, looking around for a familiar face. "What the hell are you all doing up?" She looked at the Prefect in front of her, noting that it was probably her that woke her. "Tell me! Where's Harry and Ron?"

"Greengrass!" a silky voice said, almost shouted, quieting everyone. She turned and saw the students part in the middle as Snape strode out from Harry and Ron's dormitory. "Miss Greengrass – where're Potter and Weasley?"

She blinked. "Err – are they not in their dormitory?"

"Would I be asking you if they were?" Snape sneered, weary impatience touching at the edges of his eyes. Was that concern? "Now – I know Potter stunned you. Tell me where he is, or at least what he said."

Daphne hesitated for a couple of seconds, light-blond brow furrowed. What the hell was going on?

"Now, Greengrass!"

Daphne, mind still blank – usually Snape quite liked her for being good at Potions and a Slytherin – said the first thing that came to her, "Err – Harry didn't stun me!"

Good one, Daphne, she thought, suppressing a grimace.

Snape, as if Daphne had smacked him across his face, looked at her with absolute disgust. "Now is not the time for silly schoolgirl crushes and misplaced sense of loyalty! Where is he?" He rounded the sofa, grabbed her around the shoulders and hoisted her up, shaking her. "The school is under attack! Trolls in the dungeons! Dragons loose on the upper floors! All manners of creatures are roaming the castle as we speak! I am to take you – all of you! – to the Great Hall, but I'm missing two of my students! Where. Are. They?"

His voice was low. Crisp. If only he'd shouted, Daphne thought. If only he'd raged and screamed. But he never raised his voice. The cold, quiet, lumbering fury of the Professor almost stilled her.

"I don't know. I don't know!" Daphne said, voice hurried and frighten and trembling as he shook her. "I don't know."

Snape's eyes found hers. Held them. For a long second that seemed to stretch and stretch into something indefinite. She found herself trying and failing to look away from his bottomless black eyes…

A moment later he let go of her, the connection – whatever it was – gone. She blinked back tears, swallowed the lump in the back of her throat, and held his gaze again. He favoured her with a stare usually only reserved for Harry Potter.

"If I find that you've lied to me, I'll personally escort you off this school once this is all done."

Daphne gulped, but held his gaze, refusing to show weakness, refusing to give in. "I don't know where they are, sir." And, she realized suddenly with fierce relief, it was the truth. She had no idea where those two wonderful, idiotic, maddening boys were.

"Maybe they're already in the great hall – sir."

"No," said Snape, letting go off her and standing up. "Potter's arrogant and insufferable to the point of insolence, but he wouldn't leave without making sure everyone had heard the alarm."

This time Daphne was sure she hadn't misunderstood the Potions Master. He was concerned. She found the emotion entirely unfitting on his harsh, unforgiving features.

"Well, we can't stand here and wait for them," Snape muttered, seemingly making a decision. He began gathering the Prefects and telling them how they'd get to the Great Hall. Daphne, curious as most, strained to listen in on the plan.

"We keep together. I want most of you at the back – I'll take front. Make sure you all stay behind me. And keep close," he added, raising his voice. Everyone, Daphne noted, had gone dead quiet, and she was unsure if it was because of Snape or the prospect of running through the corridors with dragons and trolls on the prowl.

"Why can't we just stay in the Common Room, sir?" a third-year asked quietly, and Daphne thought she looked like she'd been building up the courage to ask that question for a while. She also noted that a few, like her, found quite a bit of merit to the idea.

"Because," Snape sneered impatiently, "A powerful enchantment has been placed on the entrance, keeping it open. Everyone, and everything, has access – including the trolls spotted around the dungeons. We'll meet up with the other Houses in the Great Hall."

"Who could do that?" Tracey asked quietly as she found her way to Daphne by the sofas. "The enchantment, I mean."

"I don't know," replied Daphne, though troubling thoughts were brewing in the back of her mind. Not many wizards had the strength to hold Albus Dumbledore to a stalemate in his own school.

Daphne could only think of one. She shuddered, and found herself whishing Harry and Ron had stayed with her.

Where were they? Were they okay? She wanted to ask – someone. But no one knew anything. And unfortunately she knew that no one here cared all that much.

Snape turned and strode to the entrance. Daphne noted it was opened like Snape had said. Nerves like the ones she'd been filled with for her conversation with Harry and Ron blossomed anew, as student hurdled close together, ushered so by the Prefects. Snape muttered some spell beneath his breath, but Daphne couldn't hear what it was or see what it did.

Standing at the threshold to the dungeons, he glanced out while every student of Slytherin, excluding two wayward first-years, waited with baited breaths behind him.

Daphne glanced around at some of the faces clutched together in the bundle of students. Some of them were almost green with nauseous fear, which, in a way, gave Daphne some measure of courage. Some of them looked on grimly, awaiting with a sort of fierce resignation for them to move. And then there were the few who seemed to trip on their toes with barely contained excitement. Like they wanted nothing more than to meet every manner of creature – dragon, troll, whatever – that Snape had spoken of.

Daphne wasn't sure whether to feel envy or pity for those. Somewhere in her mind, she settled on fondness. She couldn't really help it – they reminded her of her father, after all.

"C'mon," Snape muttered, walking out and turning left; he went out of Daphne's sight.

If she found her way through this, she thought as she and the students around her were squeezed out of the narrow entrance by the Prefects, she'd finally have quite the story to tell her adventure-hungry dad. Finally she'd have a letter that would bring some cheer and excitement into the heart of the old Hufflepuff.

Being pushed along, wand out and in hand – though she didn't know what good it would do her if they met a freaking dragon – she let herself be swept through the damp, dark winding corridors of the dungeons. Everyone were silent, only disturbed by the constant beat of the alarm bells and the occasional sharp intake of breath whenever a withering shadow happened to be cast across their faces.

They were almost through the dungeons, when they happened upon Filch and Mrs Norris lying in the middle of the hallway, face-to-ground.

Involuntarily, maybe because of how inappropriately it was, small patches of laughter were exhaled throughout the crowd of Slytherin students as Snape bent and awoke the Caretaker.

"Severus – someone attacked me! There are students out! There were two of them!"

"Potter and Weasley…" Snape muttered silkily – with pleasure.

Daphne's heart sank. She might have been mad something fiercely at the two boys, but Filch's words had only just made her remember that they were still out somewhere in the school. Probably without teachers. Probably in danger.

All alone.

But, she thought ruefully as she beheld Snape's murderous expression, perhaps they were safer with a dragon right now than if Snape got his hands on them.

"They'll never see these halls at night again. Don't worry, Argus – I'll make sure of it."

Filch hadn't seen their faces apparently, but Daphne knew that it had been them – who else could it be? And Snape knew it, too.

Then the Caretaker seemed to take in his surroundings fully, and the horde of students that were clutched together beneath the glare of the torches.

"What – what is this, Severus?" He looked up to the ceiling, as though he only now noted the alarm. "What's going on?"

"The castle's under attack – follow along."

Filch, unable to protect himself with his lack of magic, was ushered in amongst the students and off they were again. And when they finally left behind the dank and the dark of the dungeons and came face-to-face with the warmth of the ground floors, streaks of a rising sun beginning to creep over the burning horizon, Daphne thought they'd make it to the Great Hall without trouble.

Thirty seconds after she'd thought it, though, she would hate herself for thinking that, for jinxing it as Tracey sometimes called it.

Stupid muggle saying!

They heard it before they saw it. They felt it in their bones before they heard it. They were barely a hundred feet from the entrance to the Great Hall, when a wall of fire manifested before them in cascading waves of heat, melting cobblestone and setting aflame the portraits that adorned the walls. Daphne noticed, almost absentmindedly – as though she was no longer in complete control of her own body – that some of the occupants of the portraits ran away just in time to avoid being scorched to ashes.

And then a vast, scaly body turned the corner, claiming her complete attention, and caught sight of them hurdled together behind Snape's billowing black cape.

Snape cursed – he actually swore in front of them. "Take them back around the other way," he instructed the Prefects. "I'll hold it here. Go!"

And then he jumped forward, wand raised, tip alight with a snarl of cursed light. The Prefects at the front turned, pushed them back around, and became the back of the group as they moved around the corner, going the long way around to the Great Hall.

Snape's screams of defiance and anger and the dragon's roars of fury resonated across the space of the corridors. There were students all around Daphne, slumped and stooped, crying and wailing openly and with orb-like eyes of fright. They moved quickly now, almost tripping and running over each other – the alarm still belling – as they sacrificed stealth in favour of speed. And then they turned the corner, seeing the back of the dragon – giant wings beating like a drum – and came to the great, double-doored entrance to the Great Hall. Quickly, students screeching and howling as they were pushed towards the doors and towards the dragon fighting their Head of House, they squeezed over the threshold, almost toppling each other to get in and away from the fury of the dragon.

Daphne, gasping and sweating and raw, doubled over with her hands on her knees as the doors closed behind them. A moment later, breathing under control, she straightened and cast her eyes about the open space. She thought she'd never seen it so full, so bustling and jam-packed with people – students and children and even ghosts and house-elves were all gathered.

McGonagall was talking with one of the Slytherin Prefects, who explained that Snape had been held up by a dragon, but in that second – as though on cue – the double doors creaked ajar and Snape, limping and bleeding and sweating and cursing but alive, slipped inside.

"Severus!" McGonagall breathed, coming to his aid, and supported him to one of the benches that stood along the wall. Daphne noted that every table and every bench had been pushed out to the sides of the hall.

"Where are Potter and Weasley?" He, sweating, bleeding, groaning with pain, still managed to look at McGonagall imploringly with his dark eyes. "Potter and Weasley – where are they?"

"They're not among the rest of your students?" McGonagall said, wand quivering on the edge of her fingertips. A kind of concern Daphne had not expected touched the Professor's eyes – drained her face of colour – as she cast her fierce eyes over them. Malfoy, already paler than Daphne had ever seen him, shrinked before her gaze.

"They weren't in the common room." Snape stood and cast his eyes across the students of his house, then turned them onto the rest of the hall. "I saw them fly by on brooms in this direction. POTTER! WEASLEY! SHOW YOURSELVES!"

The Great Hall, which had been alight with muttered conversations, became still. Dead. Daphne, hopeful, looked around for the two boys. She even looked to the enchanted ceiling, irrational hope spurring her to believe they might have simple been flying around over their heads this entire time. They weren't.

She felt heavy. She felt sick. Lip quivering, hands shaky – where were they? A very bad feeling told her that what she dreaded the most, what she dared not say aloud, was probably the truth. That wherever the person responsible for tonight where – that's where Ron and Harry were, too.

"Severus – no one has come flying on brooms. Why weren't they in their dormitory?" But even as she spoke, Daphne saw something slowly dawn upon her. "Oh no… Severus… the Stone…"

Daphne blinked. What had a stone got to do with everything? There were dragons in the corridors for Merlin's sake!

McGonagall had turned before anyone could say anything to her, and with fast stride she went to Flitwick, asking him to keep an eye on her students. "I've got to stop them before they get hurt – or worse."

"Stop being stupid," Snape said slowly, sneered, gloated before she got out of the Great Hall. "Or brave – I can't bear people being brave. Or stupid."

"They're out there because I dismissed them!" McGonagall said, all quiet rage and self-loathing. "If I'd just…"

"Potter and Weasley are but two students out of all. We have a duty of care," Snape said, voice cold and slow – almost inhuman in its rationality. Daphne, for the first time in her life, hated the voice, hated the condescending tone, but it stilled something in McGonagall. "Towards every student, Minerva. If they're really going for the Stone – you won't catch up to them. They're young and fast. We can only hope that they run into the Headmaster and not… him… on their way."

There had resided utter silence amongst the students, everyone listening with rapt attention as secrets were being shared freely. But like Daphne, it seemed, everyone around her had as little a clue what was going on as she.

What was Harry and Ron caught up in?

Slowly, as if swirling to the surface beneath a great muddled body of water, chatter began to arise again. Loudest of all, though, were the Weasley brothers.

"Where's Ron?" Daphne saw one of the twins shout at McGonagall as she walked back towards where the students of Gryffindor were gathered.

"What's going on out there, Professor?" The Weasley Prefect, Daphne couldn't recollect his name, asked in a more controlled manner.

And then the Head of the Houses began to explain, starting with today and working back. Aurors, Daphne learned, were on their way. The Great Hall had been sealed off for anyone, until the school had been secured. And then they explained what it was that were hidden on the third-floor corridor on the right-hand side, what had resided in the school since the beginning of term. A Stone, the Philosopher's Stone, capable of riches and immortality. Capable, Daphne feared, of yanking back to life a Dark Lord.

And somehow Ron and Harry had learned of it. Gone after it. Somehow, a couple of first-year Slytherin students had become defenders of the Stone of immortality, defying the Dark Lord and the protection that surrounded it. Somehow, and Daphne knew in her bones to be true, they'd all become depended upon the fierce courage of an eleven-year-old boy.

The Boy Who Lived.

Her head swirled as Snape paused and drank from his goblet, his throat dry and voice raspy with use. Madam Pomfrey, bustling to and fro, tending where she was needed, had cleaned and treated his wounds a couple of minutes into his explanation.

She noted that the Head Boy and Girl had set up the Prefects in pairs to keep guard by the sealed double-doors. Which had been fortunate because the Weasley twins had tried to run off almost an instant later, when the teachers weren't paying too much attention.

"The Headmaster went at once when he found it was under attack," Snape said at last, putting down his goblet. "He'll be down there any minute now."

Hopefully, Daphne thought, he found Harry and Ron on the way, protected them. The alternative was almost unbearable to think about.

"Who'd attack the school like this, sir?" a seventh-year student asked.

Snape didn't answer, merely looked away in thoughts lost and pasts gone. But students all around started speculating in hushed whispers. Only one man that they knew of had the strength and will to construct this kind of assault. Only one could put enchantment on the common rooms so strong that even the mighty magic of Albus Dumbledore would be conquered.

And only one man – one Dark Lord – would be so frightening that in a hall filled with people talking about him…

Not one dared saying his name aloud.

Daphne found herself thanking Harry that he had stunned her and not dragged her with them. Thanking him for saving her and cursing him for going.

And then she started cursing her own weakness.

Please, she thought with watery eyes, be safe.


Ron frowned, glancing back towards the cave, towards where the sound was coming from. He knew it were bells of Hogwarts. What he didn't know – what Harry seemed to know – was just what it was they meant.

Harry, cradling his broken ribs, took off limping before he could comprehend just what was going on and what they were to do. His mind, working quicker than Ron's, had already conjured the beginnings of a plan, it seemed.

Ron, hiding his grimace of pain, shuffled after him into the dark cave that seemed to stretch and exist out of nothing. As he left behind the world of unicorns and strange, eternal lights – the why of it and the how of it still heavy on his mind – he was plunged into darkness. The world in front of them, of Hogwarts and dragons and Dark Lords, seemed dull in comparison. Like something or someone had pulled a grey sheen across all colours.

He finally caught up to Harry, waiting at the threshold, and together – both all broken bones and iron wills and gleams of adventure – they stepped out into the very bright, yet very dull, moonlight.

"That was quick," a centaur of all fucking things said in mirth, eyes bright blue and gazing at Harry. Then honest surprise touched his features. "Oh – you manage to save your friend already."

"How long were we gone, Firenze?" asked Harry, and Ron noted that the bells, whatever they were, had stopped ringing all of a sudden.

"One second…" He furrowed his brow, kind, startling blue eyes narrowed in apparent confusion. He'd lived it and Ron, too, was pretty confused about the whole thing. "You just left…"

Harry, nodding as if that made perfect sense, turned to him. "Ron – did you feel strange coming back?"

What? He thought about it. No. He hadn't. Well, not more than usual, anyway. What was he getting at? The only thing he'd felt had been the dull throb of pain ever present in the muscle of his right calf.

"No. Why?"

Harry frowned in thought, lips tightening. "There was something. I'm sure of it. It was as if… I saw myself walk with you the other way – before when we first came…"

That was a strange, slightly dreadful thought.

"You're saying we…" Ron looked back at the cave behind him. The light, like a small dot, danced and winked merrily far away in the distance. "Did we just travel in time?"

Harry, fierce smile alit on his bloodied features, stared ahead. "That would explain why Hogwarts is not currently under attack."

"Under attack?"

"That's what the bell signalled – try to keep up, Ron." Harry, despite the situation, smirked, then turned to the centaur. "Firenze-"

He had already lowered himself onto his front legs for Harry.

"Can you ride? It'll be faster that way."

Ron blinked, perplexed. Weren't centaurs notoriously vain and prideful creatures? Hadn't… dad told him they seldom wanted anything to do with humans? So why – why would it lower itself for Harry? Was it different? Ron threw the thought away as quickly as it had come to him. No, it probably weren't.

Harry was different.

He clambered onto the centaur as if he'd planned it his entire life. Then he held out his hand for Ron, whilst Firenze kept his lowered position.

Ron blinked, hesitated for a second, and then grasped his hand and stepped onto Firenze, as well.

"I'm afraid I'm not all that familiar with these parts of the Forest, Harry Potter."

"Neither am I," answered Harry conversationally – he drew his wand and placed it in the palm of his hand, belly up, and closed his eyes. It spun madly, and for a second Ron feared whatever magic Harry had placed on the rock had died. But then, suddenly, it just stopped, pointing some place over the ravine. "That way."

Firenze, not doubting him, leaped up the ravine without warning. Startled, Ron clutched to Harry, his arms around his waist – and Harry gave a small hiss of pain in response.

Ron knew he was clutching his friend's ruined ribs, but there really wasn't anything he could do about that – not when the bloody bloke had insisted on being in front.

They scaled the ravine and then they were off, whisked away faster than Ron thought possible.

Harry, as if he had a precise internal sense of time, said, "Right about now, Ron."

And on cue, as if he willed it so, the alarms of Hogwarts set off. This time they would be ringing for quite a while.

Firenze warned them to keep their heads bowed in case of low-hanging branches, the howling wind muffling his voice somewhat. And as they went, plunging through the darkness towards Hogwarts, Harry, with his hands on Firenze's shoulders, turned his head and shouted an explanation of what Ron had missed.

He told of the thirty or so spiders, when he passed out. Told about what they'd said, touched upon the fight itself, how he was saved by the very centaur we were now riding – and of the strange things he had said afterwards.

He told of the unicorn, bleeding and dying, attacked and almost killed by He Who Must Not Be Named.

"And it survived?" Ron asked. "How?"

"Firenze said they have powerful magic in their own way, but I think we might have interrupted the kill somehow – or maybe he only cared about the small amount of blood that would give him strength for today."

The Forbidden Forest got lighter, trees weaned out a bit, and at one point they sped past other centaurs that were much more like his dad had described them.

"Firenze!" one thundered. He was rather evil looking with broad shoulders and wild dark hair. Ron shuddered at the mad gleam in its eye. "Have you no shame? There are humans on you back! Are you a common-"

Firenze didn't pause, and the centaur's cries fell into indecipherable echoes behind them. Before long, light starting to gleam across the grounds of Hogwarts, they found themselves slowing to a walk, coming to the edge of the Forbidden Forest – their accursed time amongst the dark trees finally closing to an end. But still, the night was young and dangers lurked unseen ahead.

"Thank you, Firenze," Harry said, already walking away, towards Hogwarts.

Ron murmured his own thanks, bowed a little, and hobbled after Harry.

"What now?" he asked.

Harry, not answering at first, gave his wand the tiniest of flick like he was merely trying to rid the tip of a speck of dust, and then stood still and waited.

Ron, who was becoming used to Harry's odd humour and mannerisms, found this to be the wrong fucking morning to play games.

"Harry – what're we doing?"

And as though answering his question, two of Hogwarts' old brooms came flying around the castle, twinkling in the morning light, and screamed at them with great speed.

Harry grinned at him. "Summoning Charm."

"Genius!" Ron breathed, as one of them came to a stop before him – at exactly the right height.

They mounted their brooms and took off, speeding towards the castle. Past Hagrid's hut, up the slopes of the grounds, past the stone they'd enchanted, through the door and into the corridors – it was as if they'd walked these paths ages upon ages ago – Merlin, it felt like another life! They hurried onwards, edging their brooms on through the hallways. The castle unravelled for them. How many times had they gone lost in these halls and hallways? Now, driven by instinct, they seemed to turn all the right corners and make all the right moves – as though Hogwarts herself was guiding them – on their way to the third-floor corridor on the right-hand side…

They turned right, coming up on the Great Hall and heard the screams of a man in battle and the fiery roars of a dragon in livid, all-consuming rage. And, turning the corner, Ron saw as Norbert flung Snape aside with a twirl of its massive tail.

Harry, flattening himself along the broom, sped off faster than Ron could muster and flung a spell over Snape's head at the dragon, the white-blue beam hitting it in its belly.

It did nothing more than gain its attention, which – knowing Harry – was exactly what he meant for it to do.

"Potter! Where the hell have you been?" Snape, blood and cold fury dripping from him, snarled as Harry twirled by lazily on his broom, evading the thick column of flames the dragon spat at him.

"No time to explain, sir," said Harry, edging slowly onwards.

"Yeah." Ron nodded, caught in the moment. Grinning with youthful madness. "There's fuckery afoot."

Flying by, they saw Snape dodge out of sight, away from the dragon. And then up the marble staircase they went, Snape's furious screams echoing behind them, in search of the third-floor corridor on the right-hand side with the giant fucking dog with three vicious heads. In search of adventure, and in search of meaning of which the Sorting Hat had alluded to upon his sorting all those months ago.

"He'll need you, Mr Weasley. Looking at your mind – there can be no doubt. You'll die before leaving him to wither beneath the weight of destiny."

Ron hated it at the start. Hated that he was sorted into Slytherin… sorted there because he was sorted into Slytherin. Hated that, because of great, famous Harry fuckin' Potter, mediocre Ron Weasley would have to give up quiet, warm nights in the Gryffindor Tower along with the rest of the normal, decent kids. Hated that – hated fucking everything. Hated that his own mother wouldn't even write to him, saying it was all right and that she was still proud of her youngest son.

He hated that for a time even his own brothers looked at him as if there was something wrong. As if he was no longer the same kid they'd grown up with.

He never told Harry any of this. It wasn't his fault…

"Why did Harry have to get sorted into Slytherin?" Ron had asked himself a quiet night, watery eyes and self-loathing and confusion swirling in his head, staring across their private dormitory because even the teachers recognized that it wouldn't end well if they weren't separated from the others that they didn't belong with the others.

But it was around the same time, the time of the duel with Malfoy and the private dormitory and Hagrid's dragon, Norbert – and the man in black and You-Know-Who… and at some point along the way he understood why… and more than that…

He accepted it.

He was happy with it.

He was happy to be in Slytherin – happy to be at Harry's side. Happy because it was right. He could have been happy, too, in Gryffindor with his brothers. He was sure of that. He'd be in his bed now or the comfy of the Gryffindor common-room or wherever the Gryffindors were now… he'd been happy. Safe. And unaware…

This was more than happiness. More powerful.

This was… meaningful – in a way that the Ron Weasley that arrived at Hogwarts almost half a year ago couldn't have predicted.

Harry swirled off the staircase, showing far more elegance and competence on a broom than a muggle-raised kid had any right to. They came to a stop in front of the door behind which they knew he'd find Fluffy, the three-headed dog.

"Weird," Harry said, dismounting his broom, eyes narrowed. "Can you hear anything?"

Ron shook my head, thinking the same. It was all oddly quiet.

Harry brandished his wand and the door was flung open and, without hesitation or sound, he stormed in with his wand raised like a sword, alit with red light.

"Oh," uttered Harry simply.

Seconds behind him, Ron stood aside and beheld the dead, three-headed dog with an odd mix of relief and confusion. It lay, as if probed, in the corner all curled up. Ron got the sense someone had murdered it in its sleep.

Harry moved. Crossing the room, he glanced around its form speculative, muttering under his breath.

"What're you looking for?" Ron inquired.

"Wounds, signs of a curse – some sign of a struggle – anything, really," Harry replied, voice a murmur of thoughts unspoken. He took a step back after having examined it. "There's nothing on it, Ron. It's… like it just died on the spot."

"I've heard of that," Ron said, slowly, trying to bring forth a hazy memory of one of the few times his dad had spoken of the war. It was there, but it wavered like smoke in the wind – just out of reach. "I don't know – it's horrible magic. A dark curse of sorts. Your name was involved…"

Harry nodded his agreement, touched his scar oddly gentle, stood up with one last glance at the dog, and then gazed towards the floor in the centre of the room. Ron followed his gaze and beheld a trapdoor on the floor that he hadn't noticed.

"That the way?" he asked, voice a murmur, shaky all of a sudden.

Harry nodded. "The way." He gazed at Ron, almost appraisingly – like he had back in their dormitory before they'd set out. "You can still turn around, Ron. I won't blame you for it."

"Don't be stupid," Ron snapped. "I'm coming, too."

He nodded, clearly expected no less, and twirled his wand. The trapdoor was yanked open with a loud thud as it hit the floor. Striding with purpose, Harry stepped up and glanced down.

Ron followed, looking over his shoulder and finding nothing but darkness.

"Should we… just go for it?" he asked.

Ron shrugged. "Nothing else really to it."

He nodded. With a small flick, he conjured a small sphere of light, which took off down the hole. A winding, steeply sloping, tube-like passageway took form before their eyes, and Ron gulped. This could either be awesome or it could be fatal.

Could it not be both?

It seemed to spiral on forever, and then it lurched aside, the ball following along, and disappeared from view.

"I'll go first," said Harry, motioning for Ron to take a step back as he prepared himself. "Call out if it's okay. If you don't hear me, you'll have to make it back to the Great Hall – I think they were gathered there. Get one of the Professors. Make them come."

And then he jumped, swallowed by the still blackness, and Ron suddenly felt very tired and very alone – felt all of the night he'd endured in his bones and on the back of his eyes.

Time passed, what felt like eternity to him, and no word or shout came from Harry. For a second, he actually contemplated going back, trying to get word to McGonagall or – Merlin, help him – Snape.

As if.

Ron jumped after him. And as he fell through, turned the corner and became enclosed by darkness, Harry's voice began to reverberate along the oval walls of the tube-like passageway.

Before long, after the tunnel had sloped down and lurched left and right multiple of times, going so far Ron was sure they were miles beneath the castle, it righted itself and his descend slowed to a crawl until he came to the threshold – Harry's awaiting face sticking in, grim and - frosty.

"What took you so long?"

Was that panic in his voice?

"I couldn't hear you. Probably too far away."

"Oh." He furrowed his brow, narrowed his green eyes. "If you couldn't hear me, shouldn't you have turned back?"

Ron grinned, cheeks red with exuberance. "Sometimes, Harry, there's just no pleasing you."

He stepped aside and allowed Ron to jump out. They were so far down that the bells of Hogwarts could no longer be heard. Glancing around the darkly lit surroundings, Ron took note of how sparse it was, having half-excepted every challenge to include some form of a monster.

It was a square room, big as a hall. It was dark and cold, and blue flames licked the air from four different torches mounted to every wall.

"Four challenges representing the virtues of the Houses," Harry said, voice trailing off towards the end. "And the last one of Dumbledore's creation. I think – we might be dealing with Snape's challenge – fuck, it's freezing!"

And if that was supposed to inspire some sense of home advantage, it failed. Because not only was it beyond cold – and he'd had quite enough of that tonight – it was also imperious to heating charms.

And beyond that – Ron felt as though someone had all of a sudden drained every will to live out of him.

Maybe he'd been too hasty to disregard the possibility of another monster.

"I think – there's something down here with us," said Harry, eyes narrowed, confirming his suspicions. He shuffled into a kind of defensive posture, wand raised towards the darkened room.

There was. Merlin – there was.

There was a small flicker of light on Harry's wand, casting withering shadows and semblance of clarity on their surroundings. "And I think," he said, "it's putting some kind of enchantment on us. Some dark spell or something driving panic and fear in our hearts. You feel it too."

It wasn't a question, he knew. Ron nodded anyway.

And then the fog descended and a creature of shadows – Ron couldn't really describe it in any other way – manifested as though it had come out of the wall. It was a tall, towering figure, cloaked in the darkest, most filthy set of rags he'd ever seen. It's face was concealed beneath its cloak – if it even had a face – and its breath rattled as if it was trying to suck in more than just air.

It was.

Ron found his laboured breath fogging in front of his eyes, quick and frighten, and he tripped back on his robes, falling on his arse. The pain in his leg flared alive, scorching and lurching through his sinews and bones.

He moaned – fucking moaned – in pain.

Harry, slumping to his knees at the ragged edge of consciousness, twirled his wand in a single last effort and pushed Ron away, and Ron found himself pushed by invisible forces, skirted out of its reach – it only had eyes for Harry, anyway.

"GO!" yelled Harry, voice hoarse and dreadfully young, pointing behind Ron. A quick glance revealed the door out of this room. His chance to make it out of this nightmare revealed onto his eyes.

Ron paid it no further attention.

The hooded figure was upon Harry.

Hunching down it reached out with grey hands, all slimy and gnarly, and seized Harry around his shoulders, hoisted him to his feet with a powerful yank.

Ron found his feet in an instant, pain forgotten.

"Reducto!" He yelled, the spell coming alive immediately. It struck the creature, but nothing happened. "Reducto! Reducto! Reducto!"

Light splashed out of his wand in multiple jets of magic. Aim was true, but none of them touched the darkly hooded figure, who, very slowly and as though Ron didn't even exist to it, lowered its face to Harry. As if it wanted to kiss him, but was being very shy about it.

Only it wasn't shyness – it was relish.

Helplessly outmatched, Ron stormed the thing, letting instinct and loyalty do the thinking. But as he came closer memories of happiness – the memory of even feeling happy – drained and he collapsed in despair, almost not even remembering why he'd tried to attack it in the first place. Almost not even remembering Harry.

He was awake, caught in a nightmare on rewind, false memories of never being loved wrought through him. He was awake to bear witness as an unconscious, defenceless little boy lost his soul to this infernal creature of darkness. Merlin – he looked so small all of a sudden. So small and… fragile…

And then the thing screamed. Throwing Harry away like he was a vile creature himself. Screeching pure madness, it fell back as if it had caught afire, trembling and moaning in what Ron supposed quantified as pain for it.

A mad sob, almost wild, threatened to spill out of Ron's mouth. And the cold feeling of never-happy broke for a moment, and he dashed forward. Heaving Harry by the shoulders, he scrambled backwards with all his might, dragging him along.

Harry groaned awake, sweat dripping off his face as if he'd been running all night. It actually seemed to clean some of the blood and dirt off his face.

The creature – a creature that devours souls and is called a Dementor, he'd learn later – had found its bearings and seemed to not have been discouraged by its first try. Gliding slowly, it followed them, hands out-stretched and coming closer. His hamstrings burned with exertion, but he kept yanking at Harry. And just as it seemed he'd be too slow, Ron felt his back hit against the door. Turning in panic, Ron yanked at the door – only to find it fucking locked!

"Shit – fuck!" Ron screamed, panicky and at the verge of brokenness – the unfairness of it all was almost to much to bear for him.

"Alohomora."

His hoarse, almost broken voice sounded, in that moment, like that of an angel.

Wide-eyed, Ron stumbled through the suddenly opened door. Blinking blearily, birth-gifted instincts kicked in and he turned and grasped around the collar of Harry's cloak – who had his wand raised at the Dementor, sputtering all sorts of spells at it to no effect – and yanked him over the threshold, closing the door behind them.

Harry turned his wand on the door and muttered another spell – locking it. It was, Ron saw, just in time as the dark creature had grasped the handle and was now trying to open the door in vain.

Collapsing to the floor, Ron heaved for air as Harry and he lay side by side, feeling the strain of the entire night, feeling his leg throb with agony – a dreadful feeling of despair was beginning to overwhelm him. He closed his eyes, yearning for his bed, for the night to be over, for-

Harry laughed. It was slow at first, low and almost as if he was in shock of its sound, but then it rose and became contagious as such things have a habit of. And Ron soon joined in his laughter.

For a minute two first-year students of Hogwarts lay on the floor laughing almost in each other's arms. Bleeding and sweating and tired, they laughed because they knew it was either that or crying.

And none of them wanted to do that.

Lighter, if not in their muscles, then certainly in spirit, they rose to their feet.

"What the hell was that?" asked Ron, as they supported each other for a second until the world stopped spinning.

"I've no idea. Nothing worked against it. I – I couldn't stay awake. Someone screamed, Ron – she must be up ahead!"

Ron furrowed his brow at him, getting nervous. "No one screamed, Harry…"

Now it was Harry's turn to frown. He cast a glance around like he expected someone to hide in the darkness.

Ron swallowed, glancing around, too. That wasn't such a crazy thought come to think of it.

"I heard someone scream – a woman."

A tense, pregnant silence hung, filled the air around them, waiting to burst in a flourish of monsters unseen…

The door rattled loudly behind them.

Both Harry and Ron jumped back, wands extended. But it was only the darkened figure still trying to get through the locked door.

"Definitely Slytherin," Harry muttered.

"What was that, mate?"

"This challenge – only Snape could be cruel enough to set that one."

He was still shaking, Ron noticed. Clutching his rips, too – bleeding still from small wounds across his face and down his body, too, if he'd had to guess.

How was he still standing? Ron had at least been out of it for a few hours. Hadn't had to fight an army of spiders too.

He was… fantastic. Ron had known that before, of course, but it was more than just his magic, his power, his skill – dogged determination poured out of him. A palpable sort of indomitable will rent the air with tendrils of unbroken might.

How could he be like that? And still… be so… kind? Down-to-earth?

"We better get a move on, Ron," he said, grimacing as he looked on ahead through the darkened tunnel. "We have three – maybe four challenges remaining. Pray that not everyone of them causes us this much trouble."

Ron nodded. They moved on through the corridor and he took in their surroundings. It was made of cobblestone, grey and featureless, but immaculate. On the wall hung torches in wall-mounted navy sconces, casting a dark-blue light that almost concealed more than it revealed. The air was moist and Ron could hear the constant, small drip of water from the stony ceiling.

They reached the end and found a heavy, wooden door standing ajar, clearly indicating – if Fluffy the dog hadn't been enough evidence – that they were not the first ones of the night.

"I wonder," Ron said, "why You-Know-Who didn't simply kill that creature like the dog?"

"Maybe it's impossible to kill."

"Is that possible?"

Harry, hand on door and wand in the other, levelled Ron with a stare.

"Right."

"Ron – your muggle is showing."

"Shut up."

Then he pushed open the door and they walked into yet another challenge – and was hit by a wave of heat, followed by…

"Plants…" Ron said, reaching up and covering his mouth and nose with the sleeve of his robes.

"Hufflepuff – Sprout," said Harry, coming to stand beside him with a weary look in his eyes, grimacing against the putrid smell. "They're… burned – dead."

There was a stench of burned, venomous plants that lay claim to the room. Almost retching, he saw Harry take a step into the room, slowly stepping around the dead, blacken, scorched plants that littered across the floor in great heaps.

Ron followed him, mindful not to step onto anything.

With a snap, one black branch suddenly clutched onto Harry's ankle, trying to pull him off his feet, but it no longer possessed any meaningful strength. Harry, though seemingly saddened by its decay, cut it off with a Severing Curse.

They reached the door, another brown and heavy wooden door, and found it locked. Harry spelled the door ajar and paused. Ron felt his skin prickle, and for a second something – Harry's cold, lumbering rage – very heavy rendered the air with its presence.

"Something powerful burned here," Harry said, words slow and lip tight.

"Mate?"

"I can feel it, Ron – feel the turn of the spell. Like an afterimage. More than just the heat that the fires left behind, there's… hatred… in it. I think this must have been a particular powerful dark curse – by a very, very powerful wizard."

Shaking his head, he pulled the door open and stepped through the room into another hallway. Ron followed. At the end of the hallway, there was a door that almost bled into its dark surroundings. Such was its blackness.

Unlocking it, Harry poked the door with his wand and it opened slowly on creaking hinges. His face was set and they stepped into the room bearing the next challenge.

It was a library, Ron noted, barely concealing a groan.

Harry, half-laughing despite it all, looked around with a sort of fond exasperation. "Flitwick."

"Yeah. Ravenclaw."

"Way to keep with the stereotypes," Harry replied.

"What do you suppose, mate?" Ron asked. "Who can find Hogwarts, A History first?"

"God I hope not," he said, laughed, then quietened – eyes squinted out over the shambolic room. "It seems this challenge has already been accomplished, too."

It had. The door at the end of the room stood wide open, welcoming them. Ron couldn't, though, for the life of him, figure out what had happened here. What they'd been supposed to be doing. There was an almost empty shelf of books, of which seemed to have been thrown off. They lay scattered around the floor, burned, torn, shredded… some stood untouched for seemingly without reason. It was as though they'd come alive for but a moment to fight to the death.

A single, gleaming dark, brown table, weighted by nothing – not even a single book – stood in the centre of the room, with a comfortable-looking squishy chair adjoining it.

Ron had no idea what the table was there for, but it seemed obvious that the books had been fighting the intruder.

Harry seemed to hold similar thoughts. "Bit on the nose, that. Ravenclaws and their books. Pen is mightier than the sword, and their silly little-"

"Which came first…" a tortured voice whispered at the edge of life, and Ron saw a book hopple and fumble towards them. Then it spoke further: "The phoenix… or the flames…"

"-riddles…" Harry finished, rather lamely, blinking.

Feeling his mouth beginning to slack, Ron turned to Harry. "No wonder You-Know-Who just burned it to the ground. Who in their right mind would waste time on riddles?"

Harry shrugged. "Dumbledore?"

"Off his rockers, that one."

"Ravenclaws?"

Ron shrugged. "They're boring."

"Well…" Harry frowned, then nodded. "Yeah, okay." He started walking towards the open door on the other side of the room, darkness eating away whatever lay beyond the threshold. "How about Granger?"

"What about her?"

"She'd like riddles. I think."

"About the only thing she'd like. Could you imagine having her with us here? It would be hell on earth! She'd be nagging us the whole way. One moment she'd be all I'm going to tell McGonagall and the next she'd be lecturing you about what spells you ought to be doing."

Harry laughed, as he placed himself along the wall by the door. Ron stepped up to the other side, the pain in his leg a forgotten, dulled throb, and craned his neck to look through the door. There was nothing but an infinite darkness.

He looked to Harry, who had his eyes closed, apparently relying on other senses when his sight failed him. A second stretched to ten, then a minute before his eyes snapped open, narrowed and of intent.

"There're nobody in there. Nobody that I can sense, at least. There is something… something small and behind everything… like it hasn't really taken effect. I don't know, Ron – I only just started learning about this a couple of weeks ago."

Ron nodded. "You can feel magic? Like Dumbledore?" He had suspected Harry'd want to learn about it after their bout with the man in black. Apparently Dumbledore had been able to do it. Seemed Harry could, too – though Ron had no doubt that it was nowhere near what Dumbledore could do.

"I think I might always have been able to. Did you feel anything when you first got your wand?"

Ron shook his head. "No – I've never felt magic in that sense. I've just, you know, seen it."

Harry nodded, eyes lost in thought. "I felt it. I've been feeling it my whole life. Only… up till a point, I didn't know what that feeling was. I had no one to explain it. But now I know. Now I… feel. Only there are so many different… sensations and I don't know what they mean. I don't know what this means."

"I think I know." Ron let a small smile touch his lips, when Harry looked at him questioningly. "Nothing but darkness. No sound. Smelling of… what is that, burned meat? Nobody present. Can only be one thing, mate. A trap."

Harry nodded. "I agree. Are we brave enough to step over the threshold anyway."

Ron shrugged. "Come this far, haven't we? I've nothing better to do."

"Good." Harry laughed. "Gryffindor's test at last. For the brave, the noble… and the foolish."

He stepped into the darkness, disappeared from view, and Ron followed hot on his heel, heart beating faster than it had ever done, and lost himself inside the darkness.

And then the door slapped close behind them and caught aflame, casting light onto a circular, domed room. At the other side, directly opposite from where they stood, another doorway – the way ahead, Ron presumed – burst into flames, as well.

The orange hue of the fire gleamed across Harry's glasses as he beheld the table in the centre of the room. He looked about as unconcerned as one could given the circumstances, like his heart and nerves were tamed by ice and quiet, introverted rage.

But Ron had suddenly been almost overwhelmed with a very bad feeling – worse than even the feeling he'd had when they happened upon Snape's monster.

He looked at the table. It was entirely unremarkable. But it seemed so very far away, and it was as if it was gliding away further, while simultaneously getting ever closer. Like it was inevitable. Like it was destiny's end.

He looked at Harry, then, and amended – destiny's beginning.

Harry had walked past him, up to and grabbing the two vials that weighted the table along with a single parchment before Ron could stop him.

"NO!" he shouted, voice almost breaking with fear.

Harry, furrowed brow, stared back at him as he held up the two vials to his eyes. "What?"

"I…" Words escaped him. What had that been about? What was that feeling? What is that feeling?

"The room's interactive somehow," said Harry. "It knew we'd be two – some form of transfiguration, no doubt. McGonagall has outdone herself. If I didn't know any better I'd say Dumbledore had a hand in this…"

"Can you stop sounding so impressed with what's going to kill us?" Ron said.

"Yeah – I ought to, right? Never knew she'd be so vicious."

"What-" Ron tried to swallow the lump in his throat, couldn't, and wiped the forming sweat off his forehead, "-what is it? What does it want us to do?"

"One-" he held up one of the vials, "-is the key to the other room, through the flames. The other-" he lowered the first, held up the second, "-is a deadly poison apparently. To drink from the first, you first have to drink the deadly poison. And they say Slytherins are the cruel ones…"

Ron could just about make out some sort of cork in the vial with the potion that would grant them passage ahead – almost invisible safe for the iridescent, flickering hue of its edges.

He felt like he'd been punched in the gut, all air escaping him and with no way back into his body. This – this couldn't be a Gryffindor challenge. This was not bravery. This was Potions. Poison. Snape. The dark creature at the beginning had to be Gryffindor's challenge – overcoming your fears and nightmares.

"You can't," Ron said, then paused, the words escaping him. "You can't do it, Harry – you can't drink the poison."

"No, of course not, Ron. Voldemort found a way ahead without having to kill himself. We can, too." He placed the vials back on the table, and went forward towards the burning doorway that led to the last room of this quest – the final destination of this grand adventure they'd sailed out into the night to complete. It had grown and grown as they went along. A stray thought of small, kind Daphne in the common-room of Slytherin slithered through him. She'd probably awoken by now, and had become quite cross with them. The thought almost brought a smile to his lips.

The sun would have risen completely by now. The thought seemed odd down here – miles and miles below the grounds of the castle.

He was about to die.

He sighed, breath ragged and shivering.

I – am – about – to – die.

He hadn't thought this was where he'd die.

Oh, he'd feared death the entire night, but somehow it had seemed more like a concept of thought than something… real. Not something that could actually happen.

Now though…

He stepped up to the table as Harry inspected the flames, looking for a way through the magic McGonagall – probably with Dumbledore's help – had placed upon it. Maybe, given time, he'd do the impossible and find a way through like You-Know-Who had.

Ron wouldn't ever bet against Harry in these matters.

But time was a precious commodity, and they ran out of it a long time ago.

Ron, hand shaken, took the parchment that Harry had barely spared a glance and raised it to his face, reading it. There were two paragraphs. The first told of the vials and their contents, including instructions about how to acquire the potion that would grant them safe passage onwards. Harry, unfortunately, had not read it wrong.

The other paragraph only held a single line.

Only bravery beyond measure will see you through the flames.

That sealed it. It was Gryffindor's challenge, then. McGonagall had constructed this monstrosity. How could an act of bravery be so cruel?

But as he thought about it, there really wasn't any greater kind of courage, was there? This was what Gryffindor appreciated more than anything else. Bravery. Self-sacrifice. And here it was all wrapped and fucked together in one bundle of misery.

This was a courage that, in almost any way, exceeded that which was required to step into a forest with monsters. This was an act that required courage beyond that which it took to willingly go after the most feared Dark Lord of all time. This was different than anything else. Heavier. Harder. Finality and certainty.

His heart beat faster than it had ever done, as if to boast about how much life it still had left to give, as though to say that it could – should – be allowed to go on for years to come. But it couldn't be. Sweat began to run over his eyes in thick droplets. Life seemed to cling onto every pour of his soul, grasping for reasons, grasping for a tendril of cowardice within that could allow him to turn back.

But it couldn't. Mustn't. Beyond that wall of fire was You-Know-Who – with the chance to come back. With the chance to kill again. And though Ron wasn't old enough to remember the time of his terror, he could see the effect of it in his parents even to this day.

He couldn't allow it. Wouldn't. There were so many things he couldn't do that, when presented with something he could do, he had to it.

Ron had to do it.

And Harry couldn't be the one to sacrifice himself here, and Ron knew he would – and there'd be nothing Ron could do to stop him making that choice. No, he had to go on – even if he didn't want it, even if he'd hate Ron for taking the choice out of his hands like this…

Ron Weasley couldn't stop You-know-Who. Only Harry had a chance.

But this, Ron thought, as his shaking hands had grasped the vial of death on its own accord, lifting it to his lips.

This, I can do.

Tears ran freely from his watery eyes as he beheld Harry, loving and cursing him, and with trembling, lively hands… he knocked back the veil of death…

And killed himself.

And then, inside his head and heart, he laughed, because he knew McGonagall would have never guessed that the bravery beyond measure would reside inside the heart of a first-year Slytherin.

Laughed because it was better than crying, laughed because it was better than only crying.

"Ron?" Ron heard Harry say, tone inquiring as he dropped the vial and it shattered on the floor. "NoRON!"

He was at his side an instant later, catching him before he fell – lowering him gently with surprising strength in his thin arms.

"Why – why would you do that?" he breathed, his voice coming from afar, and he held his head. He trembled to Ron's gaze, a combination of the poison and his fierce tears at work. But Ron could see his eyes, see the tears burn from his bright green eyes.

He tried to commit it all to memory – to hold on to every last second of life.

"Had to be done – now don't hang around once… you know." Ron almost slipped, blackness creeping into the peripheral of his vision. With an effort, he clawed his way back. He still had more left. "V-Vol… You-Know-Who is in there – it had to be me. You see, right? Only you can stop him, Harry. I can feel it."

"We could have found-"

"No time. He's in there now." Ron stifled a lump of something vile in the back of his throat, tasting a tang of copper. Blood. "Please – tell my parents I helped… when you stop him… tell them…"

Harry shouted at him, his words and Ron's own escaping into the blackness that shrouded the world. Ron felt spells touch his body as they splashed out of Harry's wand, though it felt like his body was so very far away. Like it no longer belonged to Ron. To his soul.

And then there was nothing

Then… Ron Weasley slipped away.


Looking down upon Ron's stilled form, holding him with trembling arms, Harry stopped spluttering out nonsense from his wand. He was gone. Dead.

Fucking dead!

A sob threatened to burst forth, but he clenched it down. Tears cut twin-rivers down his cheeks, but he brushed them away with violent hands. Fury, white-hot and as if it didn't belong to him, manifested from somewhere Harry couldn't identify, rising, rising, bursting to break free. It was like it came from a part of him he hadn't ever noticed. Some place dark and lonely and cruel. Otherworldly. Ancient. Forever.

Harry stood up, blood drained from a face that was etched into features that could never be undone. With a rough flick of his wand, the vial containing the key through the fires leaped into his hand and Harry downed it in one go. A cold sensation slivered through him, and he knew the flames would be no trouble at all, knew that he now would walk through fire and hell, until the end – the horror in his heart would not be quench by anything less.

He was beyond fury, beyond madness, beyond anything but the thought of Voldemort and the coming confrontation. Harry knew that such thoughts should be foreign to a boy his age, but they weren't.

They felt right. Were right.

He stepped through the fire and found himself in a chamber, at the foot of a marble staircase that led down to an oval, opened space – which was already occupied by three individuals.

Professor Dumbledore.

The man in black.

And a blackened scorched corpse that was somehow still standing strong.

It was the man in black that spoke.

"Ah – the last attendee of the night!" he said, clasping his hands together as if he'd been waiting just for Harry. "Let's crack on then, shall we?"

Harry vowed right there, looking into Dumbledore's sad eyes, walking down to join them and forming a sort of rectangular shape between them, that Ron Weasley wouldn't be the last to die tonight.

He didn't even care if it would be himself.

Someone else just had to fucking die!


End of chapter

Author's note: I don't really have a whole lot to say, so I'd just leave it at a thanks here for those who've read so far. I hope, as always, that you'll share your thoughts before you go on.

Thank you.

Bye.