Chapter Eighteen

Harry and Ron stood facing each other beside the campfire where they'd done their studying and planning for the past two days. Hermione was technically standing there, but she wasn't facing anyone, she was tucked under Harry's arm, staring off into the distance, and clutching at his shirt.

"We're going to pack up and move camp," Harry said at last. "That way you can't give away our location, if anything comes up."

Ron nodded soberly. He was still gripping the handle of the broom he'd ridden to safety when they'd escaped the combination of Death Eaters, enraged dragon, and security goblins an hour ago.

"Ron," Harry said slowly, making sure their eyes met. "Thank you. Everything you've done, you have no idea how much it's helped. So . . . thank you."

Ron smiled crookedly. "Don't suppose you're going to tell me what you stole from the vault."

Harry smiled back, more widely. "Nothing."

Ron's smile fell away. "What?"

"They'll check their records and find that it's all there. Every bit of it."

Ron's grip on the broom tightened, whitening his knuckles. "If you didn't steal something from that vault, then why did we all risk our lives over the past couple of days?"

"I can't tell you that, Ron."

"You don't even realise how many people are in danger because of this, do you? Neville knows I'm missing and they'll beat it out of him. Then Dean will get hung up and flayed for this! I poisoned my own dad—"

"He agreed. You all agreed to this, even though I wanted to leave you out of it. Ron, listen to me. You wanted in on this, and I am more grateful than you know for your help. But this is as far as it goes. Look at me, and Hermione! We've had to drop out of school, move out of our homes, and go into hiding for this. Hermione actually modified her parents' memory and sent them away to keep them safe. Is that what you want? To be part of this? Because that's what you're asking for, if you want to know what it was we were really doing today. There is so much that I'm not going to tell you, and it's not because I don't trust you. It's because you don't want to know."

Ron had gone pale, and at the end of Harry's reprimand, he nodded. "Okay, Harry. I get it."

"Do you?" Harry said dismissively. He doubted that. But his attitude made Ron take a step forward, and fix him with a hard look.

"We all thought there was something sort of off about you, this whole time." Ron's voice sounded awkward, and he was blushing, but he had to speak. "That you were just a weird cookie, probably because of how unstable your upbringing was. All the guys joked about how intense you are. You know, how you work so hard, how you're always so dire about everything. You go around acting like the world's about to end and you've got to be ready. We liked you and everything, but we thought it was funny."

"Glad to know I could amuse you," Harry sneered. Honestly, after what had just happened down in the Gringotts vaults, this was what Ron had to say? He'd known he wasn't just a regular guy like his mates in the dormitory at school, he didn't need it pointed out to him.

"But that's not exactly the right way to see it. I understand that now," Ron ploughed onward doggedly. "It's more like you were the only one who could see that the world was really ending, and we were just sitting there with our heads stuck up our arses. Just not listening. Because now . . ." He stopped to search for words. "Now something really bad is happening, and you are the only one who knows. You kept trying to show us, and we weren't hearing you. Things are totally falling apart. I've been watching it happen! But I still didn't see it, until now. It's not that you're weird. It's that the rest of us should have been! Neville got it all along, didn't he? And we made fun of him, too." Ron looked anguished. "I'm sorry," he muttered.

Harry was so surprised that he didn't say anything. At least not until Hermione pinched his side, making him jerk. He bit down on his yelp of pain, and just tightened his arm around her gratefully.

"I . . . that means a lot to me, Ron. Thank you."

"I've got to get back," Ron said, his face bright red and his eyes on the ground. "Before Dean gets found out."

"Who knows you're gone?" Harry asked curiously.

"Just Neville, Dean, and Seamus. We didn't even tell my sister."

"Are she and Dean still dating?"

"Why do you think Dean is sticking so close to the castle, instead of going to ground?" Ron shrugged.

Harry snorted. "I'm pretty sure your sister already knows you've been gone."

"Well, I probably should have told her, anyway."

"Did you tell them where you were going?"

"No. Well, Neville knows, since you sent him that letter. But I didn't tell the other guys why I was leaving."

Harry was impressed by Ron's ability to keep secrets. He'd already known that Ron was a brave soul, but he was realising more and more that Ron was quite a guy. Maybe he should have been in on this all along, he was a really valuable ally. Well, it was too late for that now. Much too late. They were nearing the end, and there was no sense putting Ron's life on the line when they were rounding the last corner.

"Goodbye, and thank you," Harry said, shaking Ron's hand firmly. Hermione shook his hand as well, and thanked him, her first words since they'd escaped. Ron departed.

They turned back to the tent, and began packing up their stuff. They shoved everything in Hermione's bag, and Harry felt a bit of regret about having to leave this spot. It was convenient, sure, with its location so close to water and so secluded, but it was more than that. He and Hermione had been here together, just the two of them, for more than a month. Cooking meals, studying for the NEWTs they would never take, sleeping in one another's arms . . . But he could hardly afford to be sentimental. A new location would serve them just as well.

When everything was tucked away inside the bag, Harry finally withdrew the cup from his robes. He gave Hermione a grim look.

"Let's take care of this now."

She nodded, and rummaged inside the bag. She wore a look of deep concentration, but she muttered under her breath. When she continued to rummage without being able to locate anything, Harry reached out his hand to help.

"I've got it!" she snapped at him.

He stepped back.

She triumphantly withdrew one of their precious vials of basilisk venom, and then dropped it on the ground. With another mutter, she swooped down to pick it up, and she thrust it into Harry's hands as though she were glad to be rid of it.

"Hermione? Are you okay?"

She cast a scathing look over their empty campsite. "Of course. I'm fine," she answered in a voice so thick with sarcasm that Harry could practically see it floating on the air.

Okay, that was a dumb question. No, she's not all right, and truth be told, I'm not either. But we don't talk to each other like that. We never do. Something's up.

"Are you ready to do this?"

She nodded, settling the strap of her bag more firmly on her shoulder. "Do it."

Harry took the cap off the vial, and poured the contents inside the cup. It began to hiss and steam. Harry swirled the liquid around, and grimaced at the rising smoke, turning his head to the side.

"I can actually feel his soul leaving," he whispered, trying not to let his voice quiver. It was a nasty, dirty feeling.

But then it was over. The buried the cup in the ashes of their fire, and Harry pulled a map of the area out of his pocket.

"Let's go."

They picked out a spot on their map, and Apparated to several locations near it before they actually Apparated to their destination. They knew that an Apparation trail fades in only a few moments, but paranoia had been working for them and they weren't about to give it up now.

Harry was (out of a sense of his self-condemned sentimentality, no doubt) beginning to set up their new campsite by making the bed in the tent. Hermione was laying out their books in an orderly stack atop a spare blanket, which she would fold over the top of them to keep the dirt off until they wanted to study. She was still looking grim and upset. Harry wondered what he'd done wrong, because he obviously had done something.

Hermione reached into the bag and began pulling out some canned food. Harry cautiously crouched down next to her.

"Hermione? Can I be honest?"

"Always," she said in a hard voice.

"I'm not really hungry. Are you?"

"No," she said, but her hands continued to unpack the food.

He laid his hands gently over hers, and found that they were shaking. He was surprised that he hadn't seen the fine trembling that was coursing through her whole body, but feeling it destroyed his annoyance with her.

"Will you be honest with me?" he asked softly.

"About what?"

"Why didn't you tell me that you're scared and you could use some comfort?"

She jerked her hands away. "I'm not."

"Not scared?"

"Yes. Why would I be? We're fine."

Harry closed his eyes until he could get a grip. "Oh, Hermione. I was afraid, too. It doesn't make you weak or whatever it is that you're thinking. That whole situation was scary."

She finally looked at him, and her eyes were swimming with tears. "I thought we were going to die," she said, and she sounded confused. "I really did. I still can't believe we're here and not dead. But I can't fall apart now, I really can't. There's still so much left to do."

Harry felt like there was more the story, and it was maddening to have Hermione acting so taciturn with him. I will not read her mind. I will not read her mind. I will not read her mind.

"Is that why you are being short with me?"

She clenched her jaw. "No."

"Will you tell me why, then?"

"No. It's something that isn't logical, and I need to work it out on my own."

Harry, still crouching next to her, felt like they were trying to shout at one another from across a massive canyon. Like they were miles apart. And he hated that.

"Don't," he said. "Don't be like that. There isn't any part of you that I don't want to know about. And there is nothing for you to work through that I'm not willing to help with."

Hermione let out a sharp breath, and the look in her eyes made him shrink. "You came back with that key, and you smelled like her."

He knew what she meant. "But Hermione, we knew before I went that I'd have to take it from her neck. You don't think I wanted to, do you?"

"No," she snapped. "I told you it isn't logical! I just . . . it's only that . . . you're mine, and she touched you! And you let her! And it's horrible, that even when we were being attacked, I wasn't so much afraid, as angry that I was going to die without ever really having you! All I could think about was that Bellatrix Lestrange got further with you than I did!"

Harry wasn't sure exactly at what point she'd started hitting him. She hit like a girl, thumping her hands into his chest, but it wasn't the physical blows that concerned him in any case. He was surprised, to say the least. Definitely didn't know what he was supposed to say right now, and it was probably better for him to just keep his mouth shut.

She dealt him one last blow and stood up with a jerk, moving away from him, snorting with rage. Harry stood up, wondering if he was supposed to stay with her or leave the tent for a while. With a shriek, she shoved him, and he let himself fall down onto the bed he'd just made up. Easier than getting in a tussling match with an enraged girl inside a tent.

Abruptly, all her anger left her. He saw it go. She became very still, and her breathing slowed down. She had her eyes locked on him, and he thought he shouldn't move.

Slowly, she lowered herself to her knees. Their faces were level, and hers had a very determined expression. Harry saw that her trembling had begun again. Was she still angry with him?

"Harry," she whispered, and fell forward. He thought she was fainting and caught her, his hands moving out instinctively. Then he found that she had planted her lips on his.

"Oh," he said in shock.

He felt sure that they still needed to talk or something, but it could wait. He applied himself to the task that had presented itself, and kissed her until she was gasping for breath. His hands were gripping her under the arms, until they really weren't and they were actually just resting lightly against her ribs while his fingers began to quest towards her breasts.

She pulled back, the sucking sound of their lips parting was loud in the tent. She was breathing heavily.

"Sorry?" he ventured, lowering his hands.

Her own hands, still trembling, grabbed the hem of his shirt and jerked it up. It was lift his arms or get his shoulders dislocated, so he lifted his arms and let her pull his shirt off.

"Um, Hermione."

"Shut up," she said with feeling, and her hands ran a shaky path from his stomach to his shoulders. Then she pushed him over. He fell back willingly, and then she was leaning over him, crawling over him to straddle him and pin him again with her lips. The trembling was going away as she lost herself in what she was doing.

She was on her knees, one leg on either side of him, and her head was retreating. He raised himself up on his elbows to keep the connection of their mouths, and her hands roamed over his chest and sides. When she pulled back yet further to slide her hands over his hips, he left off her mouth and began kissing a trail along her neck. Deep, sucking kisses that made her gasp. His mouth moved over her collarbone and kept going down, and then she shivered violently.

He dropped his head back, letting his shaggy hair swing away from his sweating neck.

"Sorry," he slurred. It was an automatic apology, because he knew better than to reach for those parts of her.

But she made a noise of pure exasperation. "You—" Unable to find the words for what she wanted, she took his hands, which he had firmly planted against the bed so he wouldn't grab at her, and placed them where her shirt met her jeans.

Wonderingly, he looked up at her. "Are you sure?"

With a growl, she yanked her own shirt off and leaned forward again to plant a nip and a kiss just behind his ear. He shuddered, and his control was undone. He gripped her by the shoulders and let his lips finish the journey they'd begun. He used his thumbs to slide her bra straps off her shoulders while he kissed at her collarbone. He unclasped the bra with one practiced hand while the other stroked her stomach. He let his mouth go to work.

She sat back on her haunches, letting her head fall back, her eyes seeing nothing but sparks and her breath rasping in her throat.

"I never . . . never thought . . . feels so good . . . hurt before . . ."

Her scramble to sound coherent just made him laugh, his warm breath puffing out over her chest and making her squirm even more. It wasn't funny, that she had expected pain, it really wasn't, but this was so amazing, to be able to do this for her. She should know how good this was. And it was good. His own need to take this further could be damned, he was going to do this for her, just this, to let her stake her physical claim like she wanted to do. She wasn't ready for more.

With a groan, she fell forward and began kissing him. Everywhere she could reach, from that insanely sensitive spot behind his ear, down his chest, and further . . . oh, god. She was nuzzling her face around his bellybutton. She shouldn't . . . he couldn't . . . Thank god. She was moving back up, up to . . . oh, back up his chest, to pay him a little of the courtesy he'd shown her, and that was . . . well, it was nice, to say the least. His hands slid up and down her bared back, marveling at how silky that skin was, and how warm her mouth was, and how good it felt to let his mouth roam over her and make her see that trust was possible, even here. But it was too much. He knew it was, and he forced himself to speak.

"Hermione," he gasped. "Please."

She raised her head, and gave him a puzzled look. "What?"

"This is . . . well, this is great. But you have to stop."

"Why?" she asked, her face aghast.

"Because if we don't stop now, I can't . . . Hermione, it's been a long time since I last had . . . um, it's been a while. And if we keep going, then I need to be able to finish. I'm not sure I'll be able to stop when you want me to. And I never, never want to force you."

Her mouth, that clever little mouth, curved up in the most wicked grin he'd ever seen. "I don't want to stop," she purred.

"Are you sure?"

Her mouth latched onto his again, and he fell back with a groan of something that was almost pain. She didn't understand, and he'd have to find the ability to control himself on his own.

"You're amazing," she whispered against his mouth, her cheek sliding over his. "I can't believe how much you care about me. And that's why I'm not afraid of this. Because I'm with you."

Just as he felt himself melt into that, that glowing pulse of assurance that his love had been enough, her hands found the buttons on his fly. He held his breath, forcing his hands to be still. She wanted this, but he had to be careful. He could do this.

"I don't know exactly where to go from here," she murmured, her face tense. "The first time, it was . . ."

He kissed away the expression on her face. "It's okay. I know what to do."

"Show me," she whispered.

Slowly. Ever so slowly, he showed her.

They were laying still, cooling off. They were still naked, and her sweaty skin glided over his as she worked her way into his embrace, settling herself against his side. He let out a deep sigh of utter contentment. Her laughter was a warm, sticky sensation against his chest.

"Doesn't take much to make you happy," she teased.

"Nor you," he said in a lazy drawl.

Her hair was spread out all over him, sticking to the drying sweat. It tickled when she moved her head to burrow even further against him.

"I'm a little embarrassed," she murmured.

"Because you don't have any clothes on?" he drawled.

"No," she said, pinching the skin on his ribs. "Because I was so clueless. I just . . . thought it would hurt more than that."

His hand stroked her shoulder. "The first time, I hear, usually does. But not like you had. That wasn't right."

"What should it have been like?"

"Like it just was, only with a bit of a pinch when I went in."

"Oh. Well, I'm glad. That it didn't hurt at all, with you. It was . . . perfect."

"That it was," he agreed with a yawn.

She levered herself up with one arm and gazed down on him with a petulant look. "I heard men fall asleep after sex, but I thought it was a joke!"

He grinned, feeling warm and calm and completely unable to move. "Not really. I mean, I hardly ever sleep already, and the last few days have been very stressful, and I haven't been this relaxed in ages, you know . . ."

She punched him on the arm. "You can't fall asleep now!"

"Why not? We already finished. Twice."

She grinned. "I suppose we did."

"We could both sleep," he suggested.

She lay back down. "We should get clean first."

He grunted. It might have been agreement. But he wasn't about to get up. And Hermione was beginning to think that a nap might be nice. Because really, it hadn't hurt, but she was feeling sort of weak, and she was beginning to think she was going to be a little sore, later. So she lay her head down against him, feeling somehow proud, like she'd accomplished something. And beautiful, because he'd just spent hours worshiping her body. And closer and more in love than ever. And maybe just a little sleepy.

It was only afternoon, but it was warm in their tent, and they were satisfied. They slept.

The man has been waiting for him, but he is not surprised. He knew how angry the man would be, how much he would desire confrontation, but his ability to shut the man out is too good when he's awake. The man must wait for him to sleep to find him, to demand answers. He is ready for the angry man.

"What have you done?" the man shouts, with that strange hissing quality that so defines him, here in this dark corridor where they meet.

"Broke into a Gringotts vault, obviously," he retorts.

"What have you taken?" the man howls at him.

Let the man rant and rave. He doesn't care. He has no fear, just now. "Nothing."

"Do not lie to me, boy! What was it?"

"I didn't take anything," he replies, feeling calm still. The man can yell at him, but he cannot touch him, for he cannot find him. He is sleeping peacefully and safely, no matter what the man might say here in this corridor of his mind. He is warm and content.

"Come, Harry," he says in his sibilant voice, calming himself to sound more reasonable. "You would not go to so much trouble for no reason, would you?"

"Of course not," he replies. He likes it when the man acts reasonable, it's so much easier to deal with. "But I didn't go to all that trouble to steal money or trinkets from them. I have my own. I didn't want anything from their vault."

"Do not act like a spoiled child with me, Harry Potter!"

"I just wanted to prove it could be done, you pathetic old man. You think you're invincible, and maybe you are. But your people aren't, are they? Eh, Riddle? I got inside. I went into your stronghold, and I spoke to your Death Eaters. I touched them. I stole from them. I played with them. Me. The one person you most wanted to find was walking through the same place you lay your head at night. I drew blood from your most trusted lieutenant. And it was fun, Riddle. I can't lie. It was bloody fun to do it to you."

"What did you take?" he pants with fury.

"Your peace of mind," he smirks.

And he shuts the man out. He forces himself back toward the edge of consciousness, away from the place where he can be reached, but something is wrong, is different . . .

The darkness of the corridor, the hissing of the man's voice, it clings to him like a dark, sticky web. The man is following him up to the surface, he isn't letting go. Riddle is angry, more angry than ever before. He can't shake him off. The man is trying to take control, and he seems to have found some dark corner where he can dig in his fingers and cling. Panicked, he forces himself to laugh and pretend it isn't happening.

"Just a kid, your enemy, and I got into your most guarded places!"

The taunt fails to shake his enemy loose, but he keeps fighting, keeps clawing his way through that never-ending dark corridor, fighting the sticky shadows, feeling a strange stinging sensation—

"HARRY!"

He came around to find her slapping him, his face and his chest and his arms, slapping him silly, the blows open-handed and painful. He grabbed at her arms, forcing them aside, and turned his face to avoid being struck again.

"Wait, stop, stop, ouch!"

"Harry," Hermione sobbed in relief, throwing herself over him and breaking down in tears. "Oh, Harry, are you okay? You were talking in your sleep. I knew you were talking to him, and I tried to wake you up, but I couldn't! I thought he was . . . I thought he was taking you!"

Still naked, he noticed, and sticky with dry sweat. He couldn't have been asleep for too terribly long.

"It's okay." His throat hurt. Had he been screaming or something? He reached his arms up to hold her, to comfort himself with the warmth of her body against his. "I'm okay now."

"I'm sorry for hitting you, but I didn't know what else to do!"

"You did the right thing," he muttered, feeling shaken and scared despite his best efforts to convince himself that there was nothing to be afraid of. "You did. Thank you."

"Was it him?"

"Yeah. It was him. For a minute . . . he had me." He shuddered, and so did she. "Thank you," he said again, fervently. He let out a deep breath, trying to release his tension. "Let's take a bath and get dressed, okay? We should study tonight."

Hermione was agreeable to the idea of finding something to do. They didn't bring up the many frightening ideas they began to have about what might have happened. Because he'd woken up, and they were going to be okay.

Severus Snape was sitting in Albus Dumbledore's office, his hands steepled in front of him and a feeling of nausea in his stomach. It was not his office, no matter how much time he spent in it. When Dumbledore's things had been left to Longbottom and Potter, Severus had not bothered replacing them with any of his own effects, and the shelves sat empty. Dust had gathered thickly to mute the gleam of the polished old wood. He didn't care. He had never counted on being around long enough for it to matter.

It would be a sort of sacrilege, he thought, to cover those shelves in his things, when he was the reason the last headmaster was dead. But these were not the thoughts that occupied him just now. He was concerned with the events of this morning. This morning, something had happened.

He never ate in front of the students, as the rest of the staff did. He preferred to seem completely aloof. Let them wonder if he feasted on ritually slaughtered kittens in a gravy of unicorn blood. He did, however, drink a cup of tea from his place at the head of the table, while looking at all of the worst troublemakers in turn until they were shaking in their shoes. It made him look close to omniscient to glare at them as if he knew what they had been doing, all while nonchalantly enjoying his morning routine.

But this morning, there had been something wrong with his tea. He was used to angry looks from the rebellious students and lots of blinking and lowered heads from those who wanted to be unnoticed. This morning, there had been something else in their eyes. Interest. Almost an anticipation. He had immediately gotten up to stroll around the room, ostensibly to make them uncomfortable with his proximity, but in actuality because he had been afraid that some type of malicious prank had been set up around his seat.

He'd strolled for a while, caught sight of Neville Longbottom, and felt as though he'd been punched in the gut. The Carrows, being the only professors who spoke to him at this point, had told him that Longbottom was at the top of their "people to destroy" list. This was how he'd known that Longbottom was living up to what Black had set for him to do, "his part for the Order of the Phoenix." Being the bane of Amycus and Alecto's existence was Longbottom's job. But Severus had not actually looked at Longbottom in quite some time, and what he saw was horrendous. He was one gigantic mass of bruises and cuts. But he raised his eyes to his headmaster and gave him a serene look that should not have been possible for someone who suspected that Severus had killed his adopted grandfather. He had accepted this role, and so, to look at them, had some of the prefects. Even Veronica Vanderlay was sporting a few ugly injuries. Not just the injuries, but the same look of acceptance of what they'd chosen.

He'd covered his surprise (and surprising feelings of guilt) by raising his cup and giving the Weasley girl a long glare over the rim of his cup. He had to maintain the image, even if they had forced him out of his seat, even if he was reeling from the realization of what these children had taken upon themselves. He'd stopped himself from drinking the tea immediately. He wasn't sure how he knew. It was odourless, tasteless, colourless—he just knew. Chalk it up to years of experience. There was poison in his tea.

So he did the only thing he could think of. Silently, with the cup at his lips, he had Vanished the liquid, filled it with water, and sipped it with leisure. He was afraid that there had been a bit of poison clinging to the edges of the cup, but he drank the water and hoped it wouldn't kill him. He saw many eyes on him—so many, that he knew drawing the truth out of them would be a long, difficult, and bloody experience.

That was why he sat here now. Did he admit he had discovered the poison, replaced it with water, and did he proceed to seek out the guilty party (or parties, as was more likely the case)? It would take days. It would be filled with screaming. It would be one massive headache, and at the end of it he would only be resented more than he already was. Was it worth it? Perhaps he could ignore it. Perhaps the simple fact that he did not take action would scare them more than his threats. They would think he was plotting revenge, wouldn't they?

And, he had to admit, making himself look invincible did factor in. If he pretended he had drunk the poison and suffered no ill effects, it made him appear beyond the reach of anyone, student or otherwise. What awe they would have if they thought he could drink poison and show no sign of it! It wasn't that he wanted to be held in awe, exactly. But it was certainly insurance against another such attempt.

"Ah!" he gasped as the Mark on his arm flared to life. "What?" he said in disbelief. His master rarely called him during the day, knowing that he had duties to attend here. But right now, and with such urgency? He could think of only one thing that would elicit such an action from the Dark Lord.

"It's Potter," he said, and felt a weight drop onto his shoulders. If the boy had not completed the task Albus had given him then Severus would have to rescue the boy, somehow. He would have to do it in some way that would not lead to his exposure as a . . . whatever he was. He wasn't a spy, not anymore. He was not even truly double-crossing anyone, now. He had no label, no clear mission. Just to stand until Potter was finished.

He didn't know how he was going to keep Potter from the Dark Lord. But he couldn't plan it until he saw the situation for himself, and keeping his master waiting was a very poor idea.

He Flooed Amycus in his classroom office to inform him that he would be out of the school for a bit, and received a knowing leer. Merlin, but the Carrows were horrible little creatures. He didn't know which of the two was worse.

With that thought, he departed for Malfoy Manor, and his master.

The whole place was in an uproar when he arrived. He could hear people arguing in the dining hall that served them as a meeting room, the swearing and shouting sort of argument. House elves were bustling to and fro, looking frightened, some of them sporting very recent self-inflicted injuries. He steeled himself to hear about some kind of attack perpetrated by the Order, one he should have been omniscient enough to see coming and so should have warned them about.

He emptied his mind, as much as possible. He called to mind the things he knew about Sirius Black and the Order of the Phoenix, and let them fill up his consciousness, beginning to select the things he could actually say. It wasn't as though he hadn't said it all before, but his master was the sort of person who liked to reiterate important information. He would keep it simple and direct, and he would allow nothing that was not on this topic into his conscious thoughts.

His unconscious thoughts were hidden, wrapped up in a maze of complexity, of swirling mental fog that was the metaphor he'd chosen for himself. Other people's defenses were more direct—a wall, a box, a locked door—while his was a work of art. An ever-shifting fog that was so obscure, no one could tell it was a defense. Anyone with a minor knowledge of Legilimency simply assumed he didn't think much, or that he was a confused person.

He walked into the room. The Dark Lord was standing extremely still, at the head of the table. All three of the Lestranges were shouting at one another, while Hunter and Saarsgard stared at the table-top, looking murderously upset. Hunter had blood soaking his shirt, and Saargard was sporting the hives-like rash produced by a Stinging Hex. Which made no sense, because if Severus knew anything about the Order, it was that they took themselves too seriously to use such juvenile techniques. The only people who would deign to use such spells, that might go up against the Death Eaters, was . . . but what could have led to this group going up against members of Potter's Defense League?

He looked directly at his master, lowering his head in submission, trying to keep his thoughts locked down tight, whether they were relevant now or not.

"My lord, I came as soon as I could. What's happened?"

The Lestrange brothers began trying to speak over one another. They quit when the Dark Lord cut a silent look at them, going pale and shutting their mouths. Severus had to hide a smirk at how bad Rabastan looked. He was terribly battered.

"What has happened, Severus," the master said in a cold, clear voice, "is that a child you assured me was nothing more than a braggart has managed to infiltrate our headquarters and to steal our possessions."

Severus felt the bottom dropping out from under him, felt it with a sickened dizziness that he masked with the ease of long practice. He held it in, and kept his voice impossibly steady.

"Are you speaking of Potter, my lord?"

Voldemort bared his teeth and hissed. Well, that was an unusual response, but if what he was saying was true, then Severus could understand the outburst. If he held Severus to blame for not foreseeing this, he had no defense.

"He came here?"

"Look what he did to my wife!" Rodolphus shouted, jerking Bellatrix's head to the side to reveal the raw-looking wound to her ear. It looked like . . . a bite mark? Actually, it looked rather like the marks Rodolphus placed on her from time to time, since Merlin knew he couldn't get it up for her without the sight of blood. But Potter had done it, and that was too impossible to be believed.

"And he took something?"

"He took the key to our vault," Bellatrix said, and her eyes were far away, almost dreamy, despite the rough way her husband was jerking her head around. "Right off my neck. While I was bleeding."

If Severus was gathering this correctly, Harry Potter had somehow gotten into Malfoy Manor, and sexually assaulted a crazy person so he could steal her gold. While he could believe Potter had the resources and intelligence necessary to do so, he could not think of a reason for it. It didn't make sense with what he knew of Potter—what he really knew, not what he said he knew based on the way Potter presented himself to the Dark Lord.

Not able to make sense of the angry ramblings of the Lestrange family, he turned back to his master and bowed his head, waiting to understand why he was here.

"Tell me how this happened, Severus."

He straightened, and made his face level, almost serene. He was a Death Eater, fulfilling the role he played for them. He was not a liar, and the information he was giving them was true and accurate. He replaced his thoughts about the Order with these thoughts, and asked the question he needed to protect himself.

"Tell me more, my lord. Tell me what he did, and what he said."

And so Severus learned of how Potter had disguised himself as both Markowicz and Rodolphus himself, stolen the key from Bellatrix, and used his friends to help him breeze right into the bank vault—and also of how the Dark Lord had confronted him when he had fallen asleep a few minutes ago, and Potter's own explanation for his actions.

Then the Dark Lord's burning eyes became more focused on him, and Severus took a deep breath.

"This seems typical of his arrogant, juvenile ideas," he said scathingly. "Of course he would think it was amusing to make us believe he could harm us. It is so very much like Potter to break into a bank vault for fun rather than for gain. He is a child, as you said yourself, and he acts like one. I must admit, my lord, that I have misjudged his capabilities. I did not believe he possessed the ability to plan such a complex scheme. In fact, I would believe it was more likely that Potter got advice from Black. Black has always thought of himself as clever."

"So you do not think he was lying?" the master asked harshly. "You think he truly was gloating over such a ridiculous victory?"

"He probably thought this was just like winning a Quidditch game," Severus said dryly. "He will never grow up, not so long as he listens to Black."

The Dark Lord took a breath, his slitted nostrils flaring, then spun on his heel and marched from the room, shouting "Find that brat and bring him to me!"

Severus followed him. "My lord, there is one thing we have not yet tried, but one that I think may bring Potter out of hiding."

"Is that so?" he snapped.

"For all his inadequacies, Potter is extremely loyal to his friends," Severus ventured.

He had to do this, and he did not allow himself to think about whether or not he wanted to. What he wanted was to be a perfect Death Eater, to be in position by his master's side at that climactic moment that he also did not allow himself to think about. That climactic moment needed Potter's success to happen, but Severus had to be as helpful as possible in bringing Potter to them. It was a fine line to walk. He had to make this suggestion, and he had to hope that Potter would know better than to take the bait.

"We know their location of some of his friends, my lord. The time is right to strike them. Potter will hear about our attack, and he will come rushing to their rescue. We will have him, then. We do not need to expend our efforts looking for him. We can bring him to us, and we can deal with some of our other enemies at the same time."

His master stared at him for a long time, brushing over his mind with an amazingly delicate touch. He would not find anything. He had never found anything, not in Severus.

"You have someone in mind for the first attack?"

"I do."

"Bellatrix will be in charge of planning this," he said with finality.

"After she allowed Potter to steal from her, in her own room?"

His lip curled. "I have seen her memory, and I do not hold her responsible. That insolent brat was a compelling actor. She is who I want in charge of this attack. I will see to it, Severus. Return to your students."

"Yes, my lord," he said with a final bow. He was intensely grateful to have escaped the wrath that his lord was keeping contained until he found a good release. He would depart immediately, and maybe then he could finally get that thrice-damned cup of tea he'd been tricked out of. . .

"Severus. Tell me why tea is suddenly so important to you," the master said in a silky voice.

His heart jumped. He had not even known the Dark Lord was still watching his thoughts. His instinct to create a convincing lie was not worth the effort this time, so he simply told the truth about the attempted poisoning.

"And what are your plans to punish the culprits?"

"I have none," Severus said calmly.

"Explain."

"Let them think I am invincible," he said with a slight smirk. "Let them think I drank poison and that it cannot kill me."

Next thing he knew, he was on the floor, stunned by the pain reverberating through his body.

"You dare!" his master was seething, yelling at him. "You dare to aspire to what I have done! You think you can claim you have accomplished what I have done! I will not allow it!"

Severus was beyond surprised. He had meant nothing of the kind, and he had assumed his master would appreciate his reasoning. But he hadn't, and Severus knew better than to resent the fact that he had not judged his master properly. He'd expected to be left in peace to run the school as he saw fit, and instead was being subjected to the Cruciatus curse. There was nothing he could do to stop it. This was his master. This was what a Death Eater lived with to serve the Dark Lord Voldemort. This was his life.

Potter, whatever you are doing, you must hurry. You haven't much time.

Dora giggled when Remus splayed his hands across her gently rounded belly, his fingers sliding slowly over the taut skin. He had an almost goofy smile on his face, his joy so obvious he thought it could be seen from space. She was sitting in their armchair, and he was slowly lowering himself down to kneel on the floor in front of her. He placed a soft kiss on her growing belly, and his fingers felt the signs of life inside.

"I love you, too, but you must be still now so that your mama can sleep," he whispered to her womb.

Her fingers brushed over his hair. He looked up at her with his blinding smile, and said nothing. Her hand slid over his cheek, which was stubbled with two days' growth of beard, and his look at her deepened.

"I can't wait until this baby is born," he murmured.

Her fingers clenched convulsively. "Me, either."

He laid his cheek on her leg and sighed. "I can still hardly believe we're married, and here we are with a baby on the way. It's going to be wonderful, when this war is over, and we can have a proper house. We'll have Simon back, and we'll finally get the chance to be a family . . ."

"With bedrooms far, far apart," she said in a low voice.

His hand ran over her thigh. "Yes. That goes without saying."

"Remus? You know that I'm happy, don't you?"

"What do you mean?"

"This little place, out in the middle of nowhere, with an important task to do—it might not seem like much to anyone else, but I'm happy here. I'm happy wherever you are."

"Yes, I do know that. Finally."

"Good. Now let me up so I can pee."

"You just did, five minutes ago," he chuckled, but he stood up and held out his hands to help her to her feet. He pecked her cheek as she playfully pushed him aside. "You're very brave, Dora my love."

"And don't you forget it," she grumbled.

Once she'd closed the bathroom door, he sank down into the armchair himself, and sighed deeply. Yes, he really had finally come to accept that she loved him and she'd take him the way he was. Just in time, really, with their child coming—

"Remus! Is that the alarm at the gate?"

"Yes!" he shouted, his heart leaping into his throat.

"Is my wand on the table?"

"Dora, don't you dare! Stay here! Stay safe!"

He bolted out the door, feeling sick. Yorick and Neil pulled night duty so the married folks could have time to themselves. For the two of them to see trouble they couldn't handle could only mean one thing.

"Boss!" Neil shouted as he and Yorick shoved the gate shut. "It's bad!"

"What is it?"

"Death Eaters! Lots of them! Greyback is here!"

Remus just stared at them in shock. This was it, then. They'd finally made enough nuisance of themselves to merit this visit, one he'd known would come eventually. They couldn't hide their location forever, and while no one could Apparate within this area, that didn't mean the walls couldn't be—

BOOM.

The first wave of attack on the gate made the entire wall around the compound shudder. The rest of the werewolves were spilling out of the cabins now, more or less clothed. Jeremy was down to his pants, and Laura was clutching a blanket around her shoulders to hide her nightie. Franka, thankfully, took the time to put on a nightie before running out into the open.

"What's happening?"

"Are we being attacked?"

"Remus, what is it?"

The panicked shouts were too loud, and he needed to think. But there was no time to think, there was only moments, and then they'd be—

BOOM.

Another shudder.

"Okay!" Remus shouted. "Listen to me!" Heads that had not already been turned his way came to attention. "We'll hold them off as long as we can, but they will eventually get through that gate! Yorick, Neil, Franka, and I, will keep them distracted once that happens, while the rest of you run outside the Apparation wards and get the hell out of here! We'll follow you when we can, and we'll meet up again at the Ministry tomorrow morning. Got it?"

"But you can't hold them all off!" Laura wailed.

"We can hold them long enough," Remus growled, locking eyes with Yorick and Neil. Franka hurried to his side.

"Me?" she asked.

Remus nodded sharply. "You're a good fighter, Franka." He took a deep breath. "And you're single."

Her eyes gleamed with understanding, reflecting the moonlight. "You're not," she said simply.

He took a deep breath. "I can't tell you to risk your life for me, Franka, while I run to safety. Not me."

She said nothing more, but darted away to meet up with the two guards. He felt a presence at his shoulder, and turned to see that Dora was at his side.

"No!" he roared. "Stay back until we clear a safe path out of the gate!"

She glared at him. "Are you joking? I'm an Auror!"

"You're pregnant! Keep yourself and the baby safe!"

Then there was no more time to argue, for just then, the gate collapsed with a roar of flame.

"Good. Add the next ingredient."

"Which is . . ."

"Merlin, what am I, your textbook? I thought you said you studied this before we started brewing it."

"I did! That doesn't mean I can remember the whole thing."

"It's the diced pods, there. Which I would hardly call diced, by the way, more like roughly cut in half."

"They're diced!"

"Well, just add them and hope it doesn't melt your cauldron."

"There. My cauldron is still solid."

"Good enough. Now stir."

"Clockwise?"

"Yes, clockwise."

Sirius hid his grin behind his copy of the latest edition of The Quibbler. He'd gotten a tip that it was a good read, this time. Surprisingly, it was. It was dedicated to supporting the mysteriously absent Harry Potter, and declaring that if he was absent, it was because he was trying to fight Voldemort. And possibly because he was having secret sessions with the also-absent Minister Bones, although she at least had graciously continued to correspond with the outside world from time to time.

He was reading this magazine while he watched a great bit of entertainment in the Potions laboratory that had somehow, through no consent of his own, sprung up in his house. He had been trying to teach Simon his third-year coursework, and also trying to coach Draco on his NEWT studies. Tonight, they were acting on the theory that Draco would benefit from presiding over Simon's Potions lesson. Turned out they were both benefiting, in so far as they were both getting to practice holding their temper when someone was needling them.

"Okay. Are you done?"

"I don't know. Am I?"

"You tell me, Billings. You're the one who is brewing this potion. You need to be able to tell when the mixture has reached its stable point."

Simon peered doubtfully into his cauldron, stirred it twice more, and looked up. "I'm done."

"Thank Merlin," Sirius muttered. "It's late. You boys clean up your mess, and then Simon needs to go to bed."

Simon shot him a glare. "Draco doesn't have to go to bed."

"Draco is nearly eighteen years old and currently has steady employment in this laboratory. You, Mr. Billings, can claim neither. Clean up the lab, and get to bed. You have a full day of studying ahead of you tomorrow."

The look he was getting from Simon declared his undying hatred for Sirius, but Sirius was willing to put up with it. Simon didn't have to like him, didn't have to like his studies or his rules or anything about him, really. He just had to do it, anyway. When Remus was ready to bring him back home, he'd find out that Sirius was quite lenient, all things considered.

Draco, wisely, did not smirk, gloat, or anything of the sort. He was carefully returning all his ingredients to their rightful places and pretending he couldn't hear Simon's complaints. Shocking, from that one. Sirius didn't think the kid had that much maturity in him. Maybe he was actually growing up.

There was a banging downstairs, loud banging. Someone knocking, with a sort of desperate urgency to it. Sirius was becoming used to this sort of thing, and he jumped up and hurried for the stairs to go down to get the door. He stopped in shock at the top of the flight when the door opened and people began spilling into his home. He had his wand out and his first hex ready when he recognized them.

"Remus!" he shouted, rushing down the stairs. "Remus, my god, what happened?"

Remus was bleeding from a really nasty gash on his head, and he was helping his wife carry Neil between them. Behind them were Jeremy and Addison, who were attempting to hold one another up despite the fact that they had both obviously suffered hexes that affected their ability to walk.

"Death Eater attack," Remus grunted. "We've got to see to Neil right away."

Sirius took Neil's arm, gently nudging Dora out of the way, and they hefted the nearly-unconscious man up the stairs.

"At the compound? How many?"

"All of 'em," Neil grunted, then his head lolled back, spilling ashes from his long hair. The room was beginning to smell strongly of woodsmoke and burnt skin.

Sirius looked at Remus.

"I'm not sure. Twenty-five? That included Greyback and the men he's gathered."

Draco and Simon were standing in the door of the Potions lab, looking concerned and curious. Draco immediately ducked back inside at the sight of Neil, and began clearing off his large table.

"Merlin's wrinkled sack," Sirius muttered. "Where's everyone else?"

Remus didn't answer him. They heaved Neil up onto the table, and Remus immediately turned to grab hold of Dora and shake her by the shoulders.

"I told you to stay safe," he scolded. There was no strength in his words. She gripped him back and buried her face in his shoulder. He put his hands on her shoulders, asking her in a soft murmur about the baby, wrapping an isolated pocket of grief around them.

Sirus looked at Jeremy and Addison, who were both weeping, leaving clean trails through the smear of dirt, blood, and ash coating their faces.

"We are everyone," Addison whispered.

"Everyone is dead," Jeremy confirmed.

"Oh no," Sirius said. "Oh, no."

He looked at Remus, but his old friend was stroking his wife's hair and wearing a hard, impenetrable expression. There was no point trying to say anything to him now. He turned instead to Neil, who was already being looked over by Draco. The blond boy was looking at his pupils, and making him move each appendage in turn. He looked up at Sirius and shook his head hopelessly. They weren't Healers, here, despite the practice they'd been getting.

"We should take Neil to the hospital," Sirius said. "The rest of you, stay here. Clean yourselves up. I'll take him."

Jeremy and Addison nodded. She leaned her head on her man's arm and sobbed, "Yorick."

Sirius met Jeremy's eyes.

"He . . . he was still alive, even at the end after all the fighting he'd done," Jeremy said, struggling to get the words out. "He sacrificed himself to make sure we got out. He held them off while we ran, he made sure they were busy until they couldn't follow our Apparation. And Franka . . ." Jeremy couldn't explain.

Remus shuddered, gripping Dora even more tightly.

Sirius wanted to help, to comfort as best he could. But there was a gravely injured man on the table who needed help. He grabbed hold of Neil and looked at Simon. "Help me get him downstairs to the Floo," he said.

Looking white and shaken, Simon moved to obey. They hurried down, not bothering to make it gentle. He needed medical attention too badly to worry about that.

"Everybody I know," Simon was muttering. "Everybody's dead."

"Simon, are you okay?" Sirius asked, knowing it was a stupid question.

Simon shook his head. "If I'd been there, I'd be dead," he said. "Remus was right to send me here. And now . . ."

And now . . . Sirius couldn't finish the thought, either. After all they'd worked for, they were dead. All their hopes and dreams, placed in Remus' hands, and instead they were drawn into war and slaughtered. So many people he'd come to know and love. And he felt a cold pit growing deep in his belly.

If Harry hears about this, what will he do?