Chapter 69: Zugzwang
May 15th, 1996
The Priestess and her army of monsters marched towards the grounds of Hogwarts. They carried torches, wands and guns, whatever weapons they could find on short notice. The Priestess's soldiers had been summoned from around the world, their portkeys whisking them away with the promise of establishing a new world order.
It wouldn't be Arnold's first time responding to the call. Not even his second or third. But this time, rather than greedily grabbing the portkey, he'd spent several minutes staring at the glowing green light in the dark of his bedroom. It would be so easy to go back to sleep, he thought, or flee to the other side of the world. Through some compulsion or fear, he couldn't remember which, his hands touched the portkey. And now he was here, questioning everything and walking forward anyway.
As they marched up the hill, the chanting started. Monsters, rise up, take your power back! Monsters, rise up, take your power back!
It sent a fire into their blood—the men shouting, the werewolves howling. Arnold felt the call raising the hair on his skin, thrumming inside his bones. Never in his wildest dreams did he think they would get this close to their goal. Freedom for his people, freedom at any cost. Monsters, rise up, take your power back!
As they approached the grounds of Hogwarts, protection magic spiked up around the gate, creating a wide barrier. The enchantment singed their skin as they got close. Someone stepped a bit too far and his foot burst into flames.
The chanting subsided as they came to a panicked halt, but the Priestess stepped to the front of the line. She pointed her finger towards the ground and flicked her wrist.
The magic barrier fractured like shattered glass, and disappeared as if it had never been.
The cacophony rose in pitch as they stepped through the destroyed barrier, their march turning into a jog. Torchlight flickered against the branches as the horde destroyed heedlessly, setting fire to bushes and hacking into trees. All the while, chanting. Monsters, rise up, take your power back!
Arnold gazed at the destruction with dismay. He had watched these same men lay waste to London, destroying cars and shooting brooms down from the sky. They'd turned a busy street into a kill zone, unconcerned about the innocents caught in the crossfire. He understood their anger, but hadn't their bloodlust been sated enough?
It wasn't long before the horde stood outside the front gates of the school, beating on the door with fists and guns. The Priestess stood nearby, watching their efforts, her scarlet robes billowing in the wind. One of her oldest lieutenants approached her, his wrinkled face battle scarred. "Priestess," he panted, "what do we do? The door won't open."
"Of course, Campbell," she said, surveying the walls. "The boy and his castle will make us fight for every inch. Tell them to let me handle this."
The men cleared away and the Priestess stood by the door. She reached out and pressed her hands against the wood and stone.
At once, the castle groaned and creaked, vibrating under the pressure of her will. The castle flickered, like a broken portrait, revealing a different castle underneath.
But after that briefest of flickers, the castle reinserted its place in reality, growing still as stone. After another minute, the Priestess withdrew her hands, staring up at the castle with a dark expression.
Arnold blinked in shock. He didn't know who'd set up the castle's defences, but he'd never seen anything defy the Priestess's magic. He hadn't believed it was possible.
She turned back to the horde, her hair flying into her face as her voice rang out. "You." She pointed at one of her followers. "With me. The rest of you, wait here." She turned to the lieutenant. "Campbell, once the gate opens, go to the basement and find the room that activates this orb." She passed it to him. "When you do, report back to me."
Campbell nodded, and the Priestess and her companion walked out of sight, passing around the building. Several minutes passed, and the horde huddled uselessly before the dark castle.
Arnold was beginning to feel uneasy. Staying in one place so long was dangerous, especially in front of a well defended enchanted castle. Any number of traps or curses could activate and kill them. Even untrained students could still kill someone from sheer luck, and they were in a much better defensive position than the invaders.
So, Arnold wondered...why was he still here?
He didn't know at what point he'd begun to question their movement. He had once been among their most loyal supporters. They trusted him enough to give him a portkey, a call to arms in their militia. In the beginning, he'd been fine with killing corrupt Ministry officials, Aurors...but then things changed. Their holy war was killing innocents, destroying the beautiful along with the ugly. And now, the Priestess had set her crosshairs on the children of Hogwarts.
And for what? The Ministry was ruined, London wiped off the map entirely. The war was already won, the magical population decimated. The foreigners in their movement might not care, but Arnold did. He wanted to save his homeland, not destroy it.
After a long while, the night seemed to darken around them. The castle thundered and shuddered, so much that Arnold thought it might collapse onto them. A high pitched screech filled the air, piercing his ears and shattering the Earth around him. With a cry of fear, he fell to his knees and covered his head.
He didn't look up again until he heard the sound of cheering. He opened his eyes to see the gate had fallen open. Arnold struggled to stand, someone clapping him on the back, "On your feet before it closes, Arnie!" The horde was running for it, whooping and shouting, brandishing their weapons. Campbell was barking orders.
Arnold watched silently as they entered into the gaping mouth of Hogwarts, heard the shouts as the soldiers' torches blinked in and out of windows. He took a few steps forwards, but hesitated in the grass. Outside he was alone and vulnerable, but he knew what awaited him inside was worse. If he stepped across that threshold, he knew there was no going back.
He used to believe their freedom was worth the price of blood. They'd tried peaceful protest, legislation, activism, and were ignored. Now nobody was ignoring them. Their children could be born free.
Wasn't that worth it? Wasn't it all worth it?
He stood alone at the edge of the grass.
What will my children think of their father?
In the distance, he heard the shuffle of footsteps in the grass. Fearing ambush, he cast an invisibility spell on himself and scrambled for a place to hide.
The dark lady stepped out of the shadows, her gaze relentlessly scanning the doorway. She stopped a few feet from him, closer than she'd ever been before. The witch's immense power thrummed off her youthful skin. In a way, her age was written in her agelessness, the hardness in her unlined eyes.
"Campbell, report?" she said into her wand.
A small voice answered. "Priestess, we found the room in the basement! The orb is bright as a sun, lighting the entire room effortlessly."
"Good," said the Priestess. "Tell me what you see in the room."
The man described it, and she nodded. "Excellent. Tell everyone they need to move down to the basement level. I will be joining them shortly."
"As you wish, but Priestess...we can't find the students and professors. Have they escaped already?"
"Not if I can help it," she said. "We will find them. Stay where you are."
The Priestess raised her hand, gazing at the top of the castle's spire. Her expression was somehow both full of regret and...contempt.
The gate to Hogwarts slammed shut.
All was deadly silent within, as the Priestess worked her magic. Green, flickering energy cascaded around her palms. Eventually the militia trapped inside started pounding at the door, crying out for help.
Arnold's mouth went dry, his mind blank with confusion as he watched the Priestess shoot the green lightning at the gate of Hogwarts. He watched as the gate absorbed it like a burrowing parasite, heard the shouts of the men turn into screams. The sickly green light flashed through all the windows as it burrowed straight through the floors and into the heart of the castle.
The moment it struck the centre, he felt the castle die as the magic twisted into something entirely new and horrible.
He barely even noticed when the Priestess turned her gaze directly on him.
"Come," she said. Arnold came, her unrelenting gaze in wild focus. "It should have been obvious that my plan was never to free you. All my gifts come at a price. Here is yours."
Her finger glowed green, and she flicked a spell at his forehead. "Imperius. The children of Hogwarts are hiding in the Forbidden Forest. Find them, execute them, and then hang yourself."
Without another word or thought, Arnold shuffled away to perform his duty.
###
Neville and Daphne sprinted down the halls of Hogwarts, alarms blaring as they followed the light of escape. His heart pounded and his lungs burned, but he barely slowed as he turned a corner. Daphne turned to shout behind them, "Almost there, mum!"
Their companions behind them—Daphne's parents—were red faced and struggling. Neville hesitated at the next intersection, slowing enough that they'd have time to catch up. Above them the castle's emergency light hovered, pulsing as if demanding they hurry.
I'm installing emergency exits, Harry had said. You'll know which way to go.
A tight ball of worry pulsed in his stomach as they hurried onward. As he turned the corner again, the light disappeared over a house elf, who stood in the hallway around a small huddle of students.
"Just in time," said the house elf. "We can depart from here. Are you ready?"
The group nodded their assent. Neville was vaguely aware of Harry's escape plan, that it would lead them outside the country, but it was still terrifying to leave the safety of the castle to enter the Forbidden Forest, of all places.
Everyone clasped hands with the elf and each other. Three seconds later, they popped into existence in a small dusty cottage. Outside the wind blew, a tree branch pounding on the doorway.
"Come," said the house elf. "We can't stay—"
Something slammed into the house elf, and he flew across the room. A half-turned werewolf stood in an open doorway, wand drawn.
Neville cast a shield to deflect the magic that pelted into them. Someone growled behind him, and he threw a curse into the darkness.
The curse hit a girl, a very young one, covered in dark hair from head to toe.
Someone jumped from behind and tackled Daphne. She cast the boils spell, and the attacker—a young boy—cried out and fell into a thrashing frenzy on the ground.
A quick sweep of the room, and Neville counted five. All werewolves, half turned. They snarled as they crept closer, eyes glinting in the darkness.
Why? His thoughts screamed. The waypoints were in the middle of nowhere, hidden and empty. There weren't supposed to be families!
The sound of knocking came from outside, louder this time, as wind from outside whipped around them. The only light to see by were the curses as they hurled them back and forth.
Twine wrapped around his arms and legs, and he fell to the ground, his wand knocked from his hands. He saw the others falling as well, Daphne landing across from him, leaning against the wall.
"I got 'em, Dad!" cried the boy, his face flushed with excitement. "That spell worked, just like you said!"
"Nicely done," he replied. "Make sure you take their wands."
The boy's slender fingers grabbed Neville's wand, then hopped over him to get the wands dropped by Daphne's parents. Neville glanced at Daphne, who had fallen against the corner, fingers clutching a wand pinned under her side.
Her eyes caught his gaze, panic mixed with hope, an understanding passing between them.
"Stop!" Neville cried out. "Why are you doing this to us? We did nothing to you!"
The man turned, growled into his face, "Lies. Wait a few years, and you all learn to hate us. Pureblood freaks."
"Oh you think we're freaks? Looked in a mirror lately?"
The werewolf boy hadn't found the wand, distracted by Neville's taunts. But the man's eyes were studying Daphne, so Neville cried louder. "Why are you here? Is it money, then? What kind of sick father would put his children in harm's way for a measly—"
The man growled, grasping Neville by the neck. He coughed and sputtered as his claws drew blood.
"I don't care if you pay me a million galleons for your life," he rasped. "I would still kill you for free. Amelia, signal the Priestess and tell her we captured six of them."
Neville heard the knocking sound again, and saw the branches of the tree striking the open window, blown by the wind.
Daphne fired off a shot into the tree branches, and seconds later it burst through the window. In the ensuing confusion, she cried out a curse, and the man howled and released Neville, his body rammed through by the tree branches.
Neville fell down, and someone broke the bonds on his hands and pulled him to his feet. The front door opened, and Neville saw his friends fleeing, one of them firing off boil hexes to stop any followers.
"Dad?" He heard the young boy plead. "Get up, Dad!"
Neville ran out the open door. As they stumbled away, he had just enough presence of mind to throw up a protection spell. He grabbed Daphne's hand. Then they ran, the cry of werewolves following them.
In the distance, Hogwarts remained visible, but they could see nothing outside small fires surrounding the castle. Neville had no idea if anyone else had made it out. All at once, a great cry rent the air, and they watched as a horrible green fire burned through the school, like an axe through a tree. Even after the fire died, they couldn't look away, traumatized by what they'd seen.
Dean and Padma, who had headed for a different exit, and the staff at Hogwarts who had shepherded them out.
Were they alive?
Someone popped into existence in front of them. He was an Englishman in dark robes, and for a moment Neville mistook him for an Auror until he levelled his wand at them.
"Mortis Electricus."
###
The human ashes clung to the Priestess's feet as she walked the ruin of Hogwarts.
She couldn't bring herself to pity her monsters much. They had died doing what they loved, looting and destroying. It amazed her how easily her followers gave themselves over to violence. Perenelle had spent the last thousand years living as a pacifist hermit, protecting humanity from their own greed.
I will safeguard the secrets of our research until the end of my life, or my bond is lifted. This, by my life and my magic, I swear so to do.
She'd had no idea, when she'd taken that vow, just how much it would cost her. How many years she would spend tracking down useless artifacts and hoarding them. How many useful and fascinating secrets she would possess, but could never share. How many years she'd spend wishing for a less painful way to live, or even a way to die, but knowing that would never happen, for her bond of service would never be lifted.
The hall was long and dark, but the orb in her hand grew brighter as she descended into Hogwarts. At every turn within this castle, she recognized the pattern of the designer. The regal, welcoming whimsy, the spiritual blended with the natural. The weight of her mentor's handprint was pressed all over this design, even if he wasn't the one who built it.
Think of it, Perenelle, he'd said, in his usual frantic excitement. A wizarding school designed for the children of men! It will draw from deep wells of magic in the earth, strengthen the magic in their frail bodies. So that someday, they will be ready to join us, when we must leave our home in the skies.
"Damn fool," she muttered. "After all these years, I still can't escape you."
She stepped through the hallways, observing the dust shifting beneath her feet. Their energy clung to the air, haunting it with their final screams.
She took the closest stairs heading down into the Slytherin basement, then walked further down. The orb shone brighter and brighter.
Twelve steps. Her feet thudded on the floor. Turn right. There.
The Priestess stopped in the room, which was piled high with dust. She knew her next task was to collect some in a bucket, and mix it together with a baby's tears.
But first, she had to make sure he wasn't watching.
She tossed the orb into the air, letting it hover above her. Raising her wand, she cast a spell that spread the dust across every reflective surface in the room, then sealed it. Let him try to stop her now.
"Perenelle," said a tired man's voice. "What have you done to my school?"
She tensed, then slowly turned to the voice.
"Dumbledore," she said. "I've made some improvements on the place."
"Have you? Your improvements are as tasteless as your robes. And this coming from someone who sports purple pyjamas."
She sighed. Always with the barbs. "Why won't you just die, old man?"
"Same reason you won't, old woman," he replied. "It is, as it always was, for the Greater Good."
She got to work on the plans she'd woven over a thousand years. "Fine then. Since we're both here, I think it's time we had a little chat."
###
Draco watched Hermione burn.
The fiendfyre took the form of a dark dragon, crashing into her chest like a fireball. It would consume her flesh and her magic, preventing her from regenerating. Even if she tried to dodge, the fire would follow her until it finished its deadly mission.
His battle magic teacher at Durmstrang made sure every student knew how to cast it. And all it cost Draco was a drop of his blood.
This was not what he had wanted to happen. But she'd left him no choice.
He watched as the fire dragon exploded against her body, licking her skin like an appetizer. Its jaws mawed at her chest, as if it sought her heart. Draco could not see her eyes, since they were hidden behind the dark mask, but her pain was in an open mouthed scream.
Draco suspected he should have felt something at watching her death—sadness, anger, or triumph—but all he felt was a strange compulsion to stare at the flames.
It was almost beautiful, how quick and efficient it was. Everything would be consumed, like paper in a kiln, leaving nothing but pure ash.
Romilda must have looked like that as she died, wisps of ash in the wind.
Something inside Draco was laughing, while the rest of him was screaming. He ignored it, focusing instead on the flames. It took him far too long to realize when the colors shifted from red to light green.
Draco's wand was in his hand, but he didn't know what to do with it. He heard a piercing whine, then felt a burst of strong magic, as if a wizard had just died. Then, the green flames overtook the red, and they both dispelled. Hermione slumped down, a charred book falling to her feet in front of her limp body.
"That bitch has a horcrux!" screeched Bellatrix.
Draco stared wide eyed.
That…that didn't make any sense.
Draco had heard of Horcruxes in Durmstrang, about how they were made, and what he'd just seen was not one of their abilities. A Horcrux made you an undead parasite, latching on to a host who had the misfortune of touching your carefully placed creation. If a Horcrux could actually block death, then more people would have them.
Then again…maybe the ancient books didn't know everything about this dark magic. Maybe it could block a death spell if positioned in just the right location. But he'd checked and rechecked her for magical items, scoured her memories for anything dangerous, and found nothing. Or at least, no magic so powerful it could mask a fucking Horcrux.
Draco had thought he'd overplanned for this moment. He'd stunned her repeatedly, stolen all her magical items, including her time turner and her cloak of invisibility. He'd bound her in spider silk, which was nearly impossible to cut, and which was both magically and physically resistant. Even if she had a magical weapon hidden under her robes, she shouldn't have been able to use it.
He'd even stolen Mad Eye's eye, which—combined with the ring—gave him so much mental acuity he could practically predict the future. And even then, she'd almost escaped, and had even blocked fiendfyre!
Draco felt a chill come over him. The only explanation—besides sheer dumb luck—was that someone was helping them, outside their knowledge. Someone who knew the prophecies and could manipulate them. After all, if Draco had access to them, then...why not someone else?
Hermione began to rise. The spiders thundered over, throwing out webs to tie her to the ground, but Bellatrix was faster. She struck with her wand.
"Crucio!"
Hermione—her silencing charm broken—screamed with wild desperation, her body contorting on itself in a desperate attempt to escape. The spider webs held her fast, their cords roped into the ground. Draco drew out Mad Eye's eye and examined her through its lens. He saw no more magical items, no more tricks. Only a girl in terrible pain.
Draco's eyes slid over to Harry, whose mouth was moving as he screamed her name. He saw nothing on Harry, either, but he wouldn't be fooled again. He'd keep checking. Constant Vigilance.
As he watched, a new plan formed in his mind, cruel and elegant.
"How long," asked Draco, loud enough to be heard over the screaming. "Will it take to break her mind?"
"A couple of hours," said Bellatrix. "But if I had a bit more power? Five minutes."
Draco pointed his wand, and thundered. "Potestas Imprimas!"
The spell went wide, shooting off into the forest. He'd tested the spell multiple times before this—he was no fool. He knew saying it with that much force was much, much too dangerous, especially with how much magical energy she'd absorbed from using the ring. A second shot of power—this time whispered—he placed squarely on her chest.
Harry didn't need to know that, though. The look of horror on his face told him the trick worked.
Bellatrix laughed with rabid glee, her spell strengthening as the green curse reflected in her eyes.
"Ohhh, that's delicious! Have a taste, little mudblood!"
Hermione was in so much pain she couldn't even cry. It was just one long shriek of agony, until her throat grew too hoarse, and her eyes were as blank as her mind...
There is no good and evil, Draco calmly reminded himself. Only actions and consequences.
Drawing in all the steel he could muster, Draco shouted, "You have three minutes, Potter. Tell me where the stone is, and we'll let her live. If not, I'll give you back a vegetable. Move an inch before then, and I kill you where you stand."
Draco knew, as he said them, that these were the words of a villain. It was the role he had to play, the boy seeking revenge on his father's murderer. He knew torturing Hermione was the only way to break Harry, the only way to save the world. But he wondered at what point this role became who he was, and where he should draw the line, and if it even mattered in the end.
He shook his head. There was no time. The moon was rising, and the world needed him to focus. His weapons at the ready, the eye and the ring in his hands, he waited for his opportunity.
###
When Harry read a fantasy book, one of his favourite mental exercises was trying to figure out how the hero could win, especially when facing long odds. He would plot out what moves he could take, what resources he had at his disposal, and always felt mildly disappointed when the hero missed something really obvious. He imagined if that ever happened to him, he'd make better choices.
But in that moment, Harry didn't feel like any of that preparation mattered at all.
Hermione was screaming, and Harry was using all his mental strength to shut that part of himself off, the part that was screaming with her. His body hurt from how hard he was straining against the binding.
Almost completely on autopilot, his brain started rapidly cycling through his options.
You have three minutes. If you fail, Hermione will be lost. Go.
Flight?
Still trapped. Need a way free.
Steal Draco's wand. Get him close, snatch it.
Still trapped. Can't move hand.
Not even a little? What about headbutting or biting?
Face it, we can't get free. We need to distract them long enough so Hermione can.
Little flashes of green light flickered across his vision, and the screaming rose in pitch. Harry felt his stomach lurch, wishing desperately for sight. Was she trapped, or was she still free to move? How many people had their wands on her? Was she bleeding, was she…
Bluff. Tell Draco you're ready to offer up the information.
But I don't have it.
Doesn't matter.
He'll find out we're lying. He's using super high powered Legilimency.
But we're also a Legilimens, remember? He couldn't get past the block before, and we'll throw all our Occlumency barriers up to keep him out. Maybe we can even see into his mind, give us information about his weaknesses—
You're rationalizing a faulty plan, as if you don't remember how we folded like a deck of cards earlier. Draco will see into our mind and kill us, and then Bellatrix will wipe Hermione's mind and Imperius her into their minion. You don't even have to go dark to know that's what they're planning.
Hermione made a sound a human throat shouldn't make, and a part of Harry wanted to believe this wasn't happening, but slammed that thought out.
I'm going to kill both of them. I'm going to snap these bonds and kill—
Not helping.
Fine. Use another tactic to stall. Draco believes you can end the world, so tell him if he kills you or Hermione, that events have already been put in place to destroy the world at your death. Say you'll tell him how to stop it if he lets Hermione go. Or, better yet, tell them Lord Voldemort's spirit is inside you. Bellatrix might believe it, and betray Draco to come to your defense. We can speak Parseltongue, and she believed it once before in Azkaban.
She was weak and desperate then, this is different. I don't have enough time to prepare—
Hermione coughed out spit and bile. Someone kicked her, and then the spell started again, and this time she didn't scream.
His heart dropped, and Harry's caution completely gave out.
"Stop," commanded Harry. "I'm ready to talk."
There was no response, while the green flashes flickered in his vision.
"I said I'm ready to talk!"
"Sorry, Potter. I don't believe you."
Harry felt his blood run cold in fear, and perhaps in anger. Keep getting angry, go to your dark side, convince them you're Voldemort—
"I'm not lying," said Harry, a tinge of anger seeping through. "I have the information you need."
"Perhaps, but you also plan to waste my time before handing it over." Draco's voice was cold and acerbic. "As you tried to stall the Dark Lord with mindless evasion tactics before murdering my father. So you know what? I think I'm just going to kill Hermione, and take what I need after that."
Harry froze.
He's bluffing, he has to be. There must be some other tactic, maybe if I give him something—
"You see, I know all your secrets." Draco's voice carried over the clearing. "I know you're about to pretend your death will destroy the world. You will also try to turn Bellatrix and I against each other. And no, she doesn't think you're Voldemort. You manipulate people, but that won't work on me. You already took from me everything I love, so now I'll return the favour."
"Draco, I'm—" Harry faltered over the words. "About your father…I don't remember what happened, but I'm so sorry—"
"Huh. Well, you already told me that too. Several days after you killed him."
Harry's mind reeled as Draco went on. "There was once a time where I would have told you what happened and demanded answers, but now I think I'm content in letting you stew in your confusion. Let you wonder what you said that was so horrible that you obliviated yourself, how your cowardice led to the price that Hermione is paying for you now."
Harry swallowed dryly, unable to defend himself against a memory that wasn't his, and yet Draco's voice told him it wasn't a lie.
"You have a pathological need to control people, and you used me. Even now, you still think you can manipulate your way out of this. But I'm not some scared little boy in awe of you, Harry. You are going to watch Hermione suffer, and then you're going to die, and you're going to know what it means to lose control."
Harry felt a stabbing sense of deja vu—he'd heard this voice in his dreams, and he'd seen how this ended. Hermione limp in his arms, unseeing eyes staring back at him.
Panic seized every muscle, and he cried out, "Draco, please!"
He heard Hermione croak out. "Harry…don't."
"Shut up," said Bellatrix, and she sobbed out her response.
"Draco!" cried Harry. "I'm sorry, please tell me what I have to do! Do you want to kill me? Do you want me to dedicate my life to bringing your father back from the dead? I'll do it, I swear on my life, just let her go, please."
There was a momentous pause.
"I wish things could have been different, Harry," said Draco. "But bringing back the dead is a fantasy."
Harry struggled, thrashing against the binding. He tried pleading with Draco, then screaming curses at him, until finally he was sobbing openly.
You have no moves left.
No.
Accept it.
Not like this! I need to see her, need to tell her—
Harry felt something in his pocket.
He froze.
The quest gods?
In a moment that felt monumentally insane and surreal, Harry pressed forward.
Can I…have a wand too? Nothing happened. Please?
He felt something else, a familiar weight of a wand.
Okay. Okay, I also need a way out of this binding, please.
He felt nothing.
Pretty please? With sugar on top and sprinkles? Come on, I need some way to break this—
"Time's up," said Draco. "If you want to save her, do exactly what I say from this moment forward."
His mind was racing, trying to think faster than Draco talked.
He's going to read my mind, and he'll see that I have weapons, and he will kill us both.
"Do not speak, and do not move. I will kill you instantly if you do."
Should I move? He might use a fire spell that will weaken the bindings. Maybe I have a Horcrux, and it will activate?
"I will come and take the information from you. If it's not there, you will be killed. If you give me what I want, Hermione lives."
Then, Harry's brain spat out an idea.
No. That's stupid.
I don't care.
Very softly, behind his back, Harry snapped his fingers.
Harry felt the smallest pop around his right middle finger, and then smelled something tangy and acidic. It was absolutely vile, and Harry almost gagged. He felt his hands wiggling free, and he snapped them again.
Something else popped on his back somewhere, and he felt searing pain, and like some liquid was leaking out of his clothes.
Some great creature hissed behind him, and Draco cried out a spell, just as Harry reached his hand into his pocket and drew out the first thing he touched.
A grenade.
He threw it, and as it collided with Draco's spell, the entire world exploded in light.
###
Harry ran.
It was a stumbling, shambling run, his body still half-bound in spider's web. It weakened with every step, as he ran towards the grey outline of Hermione.
He could see his adversary now, their outline bleeding through the mask: Draco held his hands over his head, and Bellatrix was screaming. The Acromantula scrambled back, their legs folding over themselves like an ugly kaleidoscope.
Harry tripped over the last step, falling next to Hermione, then dragging himself closer. Her eyes were covered with a mask, and he pulled himself upright.
"Protego."
A shield rose around them, but it was weak. It wouldn't stand a prolonged assault.
"Hermione," he said, pulling the mask off her eyes slightly. She did not open them, or even react to the blinding light.
The exits weren't far, but he could not fly, and the binding was still too strong around his legs. He pulled out his wand. "Reducto."
His wand spurted out magic, but it felt wrong, and did absolutely nothing. He gasped at a pain in his stomach, then clenched his teeth and tried again. "Incendio!"
It wasn't working, and it hurt, like his magic was a live wire shocking his stomach. But where Harry touched her, the spider's web sizzled under his fingers, weakening and dissolving. Hermione's eyes remained closed, and he touched his wand to her temple as his light bomb enhanced vision faded. "Innervate!"
He wrenched off the mask and whipped around to see Draco, and his alarm increased to see his shield already broken.
There was a moment of clarity, when he realized he had one choice left. He positioned himself in front of Hermione.
"Draco. I surren—"
"Avada Kedavra."
