Disclaimer: Not mine, all respects paid to their proper owners.

A/N: I owe a huge thank you to my beta Trinka, and to everyone who has been reading and reviewing this story – thank you all for your support! I hope this next chapter does not disappoint!

Trap Sprung

The song had long ceased to be about melting the ice. It had taken a life of its own and vaulted through the frost-rimmed canopy arching over her, leaping into the sky, bouncing off the stone both man - and nature - made to layer over itself again and again. Had Hermione been listening, she would have heard many voices raised with hers in song – the world around her responding to its mistress' joyous sound.

But for her, there was nothing but the music, and the narrow strip of her throat that produced a sound inhuman in its flawless beauty.

Not only the ice trapping the elderflower she needed had faded under the coaxing of her voice. Snow was retreating visibly in a circle from where she knelt, and in its place, new grass sprang to life, the process of many days accomplished in a matter of seconds as white ceded its dominance of the earth to a rich, verdant green and the tiny, purple-and-white spring flowers that blossomed instantly. Saplings began to push through next as the ground went from slush to thick mud to comfortable, springy firmness under her knees in the space of a few minutes.

The music rebounding from the trees was so thick that the horn did not immediately penetrate into her world, its sound one amongst many.

But these notes blared against her current. The brass did not weave the same tapestry as the rest of the night. It was not about growth and newness, but about binding, about entrapment, about a trust betrayed and a waiting hell.

Hermione felt physical illness swell and crash over her – real as any ocean tide – as the French horn went to war with her voice, and she struggled to her feet, bent double with the effort of defending herself from the thrusts interrupting her creation. She threw her hands out to touch the trees on either side of her, begging for their help in the only way she knew how.

Grow, her voice ordered. Her alto range reaching for its lowest pitches, shuddering through the massive frames towering over her like guardians, sliding into the trees' roots and waking them from their winter-induced slumber.

Protect me! Her cry of desperation was echoed in the half-scream of her voice, an instrument no longer under her control but battling for her life, acting without her thought or permission as the trees, awakened and fueled by magic, began to spread their limbs. Branches extended around her, meeting and crossing to create a basket-like cage. She was dimly aware of the ice entombing the trees cracking and flying upwards in a whirlwind of unleashed song as other trees began to sprout leaves. Her view of the world outside thinned rapidly as they appeared like so many large, green raindrops, the magic of the natural world defending the too-frail young woman who was its safeguard.

Hermione could see, through the rapidly-closing gaps in her song-made blockade, the gaping-mouthed, completely astonished face of Lucius Malfoy, crowned by the white-blond hair that glowed almost like a halo in the starlight. Instinctively, she felt that he was only the secondary threat, that the wielder of the anti-music stood behind her…and as she whirled on the spot, she found herself staring into the black, shocked and horrified gaze of Kassandra Zabini, ensnared by tree branches some twenty yards distant, the French horn half-sunk in a snow bank, the bronze bell gleaming dully from refracted moon light.

Amazement, hurt and comprehension did not have time to order themselves before exhaustion claimed the Gryffindor, and she collapsed on the thick patch of grass that she had summoned in the middle of winter to be her resting place.

888

Something was wrong. Kassandra felt the music notice her counter playing, and shift immediately, an impossible improvisation funneling the notes into consummate anger, generating protection. The young Slytherin had the distinct feeling that she was trying to remove someone important from the world, and that the world had altered to stand in her way.

Horn still sending daggers of sound into the night, Kassandra began to duck through the trees and bushes towards the source of the now-strident music, sucking air furiously through her nose, supplying oxygen to her horn and her legs at the same time, ignoring her lungs' violent protest at this mistreatment.

As she plunged onwards towards the other witch, the very air grew thicker, impeding her passage, and trees blew in a sudden, stiff wind to grab at her clothing. Narrowly avoiding several, one finally caught her robe and jerked her backwards, momentum yanking the horn from her lips, suddenly causing it to fall silent as it tumbled from her hands to imprint the soft snow.

Peace blazed briefly in the interim, the cacophony of warring vibrations abruptly ceased, and as Kassandra twisted, trying to prize herself from the branches that had tangled around her to prevent her from moving closer, she glimpsed her goal through the gleaming trunks, and stopped.

Foliage bent towards Hermione Granger from all directions, magic-fueled to make an impregnable fortress of wood, leaves and vines. But these were not winter's spare branches enfolding the young witch. They were new, healthy and green, like the birth of spring, and Kassandra felt terror and a sense of betrayal so deep her stomach roiled as if she were falling without end.

The deal she had struck with Lucius was indeed a devil's bargain. Nature had made it clear that Hermione Granger was no mere virtuoso.

She was legend molded in flesh.

888

Ice shattered upward in a whipping maelstrom of silver as the great trees of the Forbidden Forest groaned, shuddered, and fell still, sealing Hermione Granger from sight, sound and spells.

As the girl Lucius had hunted for six months vanished in front of his eyes, the ruthlessness that would become his trademark in wizarding politics seamlessly pushed his secondary plan to the forefront of his brain. He had hoped not to use it. But the magic he and Walden had so carefully practiced using was misfiring off the stout tree limbs hiding the American witch, their considerable power negligible in the face of what she controlled.

He cocked an eyebrow at his best friend. Walden ducked as another blast from his wand ratcheted off bark without so much as singeing it and shot back towards him, and then met his friend's gaze.

"Plan Two?" he mouthed.

Lucius nodded shortly, and jerked his blond head in the direction of the dumbstruck Kassandra, still hung up by the trees. In unison, the boys raised their wands, knowing that they had only seconds while the after-ring of music still quivered in their ears to bind Kassandra's power and salvage Lucius' promise to the Dark Lord.

Smug satisfaction curved Lucius' mouth as Kassandra's neck wrenched her head towards this new threat, a light of unwanted understanding adding to the growing fear in her eyes as the spells struck home, the horn only five feet away from her five feet too far to help, the gnarled branches preventing her from reaching her wand.

"What?" Her face contorted with pain and rage, and, complex magic completed smoothly by the two friends long used to teamwork, Lucius stepped close to her, close enough to warm her cold, sharp cheeks with his breath. Her black eyes held all the panic of a caged doe, and she wrestled fruitlessly with the branches and spells that had immobilized her. "What are you doing?" she whispered, using the only tool left to her: her voice.

"I have a pledge to fulfill. Granger would have been better, but," he smirked broadly, "one of your family will do. And as you made yourself exempt from the blood-oath I swore to the rest of them…" He allowed the statement to twist in the cold air, dangling her failed salvation over her and exulting in her dawning comprehension and fury.

"Now, since the anti-Apparition wards you were so kind as to disrupt in your eagerness to remove Granger will be operational again in a few seconds, shall we?"

Behind him, Walden lifted the abandoned instrument from its place in the snow, shining metal throwing lines of light across the shadow-patched ground.

The sound of Disapparation unsettled the remaining snow from the nearest trees as the three students vanished.

888

The sound first tingled in bones, a low-level vibration just enough to discomfit, and the more than a thousand residents of Hogwarts squirmed slightly in their office chairs, in their common rooms, in the library, snogging in the Astronomy Tower.

But as it spiraled up and out, as the lone voice grew into a symphony, the unsettled feeling moved from bone to blood to skin, and fear rippled through students and staff as they sought the source, a tide of humanity surging to windows, to corridors, to stairwells.

In his office, Dumbledore shot to his feet and strode to his arrow-loop-shaped window, the school's protective magic once more fluctuating painfully, unable to respond to this music that recollected the re-birth of the world…

…and he felt more than he heard the challenger, the sound that buckled the wards, wreaking havoc on the spells that served as guardians and bringing pressure into the old wizard's lungs, lances of fire in his ribs making it difficult to breathe. The brassy notes of a horn blazed in the frozen night, cutting across the beauty seemingly woven by the grounds themselves. This second sound issued commands instead of coaxing – and the resulting clash was hideous to hear, music fighting music under the pale, almost-full moon.

Dumbledore readied to turn away, to hobble down to the grounds and halt this unpredicted, lethally dangerous duel, when he saw the spire of ice shooting like a geyser from the edge of the forest on the far side of the lake, each tiny piece catching starlight as it rose, their slow fall back to earth glittering like a shower of diamonds.

The horn stopped abruptly, mid-note, as if it had been whipped from its player, and the Headmaster of Hogwarts watched wind spring up where the shards of water had descended, dread lodged in his throat. He had insisted on keeping the girl here, certain that her unknown mission required her presence at Hogwarts in the absence of other information.

But this was beyond his reckoning, a magic more powerful than any he had ever felt, a girl with more potential for destruction than anyone he had ever heard of.

As he stood staring, unable to tear himself away from the lattice even as his breath began to send streaks of fog up the glass and obscure his view, Albus Dumbledore prayed that he had not made a fatal mistake.

888

Spring's passion and vitality surged through her, the sound almost painful in its intensity, even as Klytemnestra's fingers curled into their string positions, and her right hand longed for nothing more than the feeling of her polished bow.

But whispers had turned to murmurs, trickled to conversation, deluged into cries of fear as students flooded upwards from Slytherin's common room, taking her with them, the disturbance rattling not just in their ears but thrumming in their veins and shivering in their marrow. Remembrances of the attack on Diagon Alley came from so many lips it sounded as if the castle itself was issuing warning.

Klytemnestra Zabini was deaf to all of it as she surged with the tide of black-and-pajama-clad students, frantically scanning the sea of teenagers for two faces in the many suddenly packing Hogwarts' ground-level corridors.

"Granger."

Her cousin was at her side, making her jump with the name that announced his arrival. "What-"

She stopped as the music radically altered, the sound of a French horn cutting across the notes of creation, throwing the sky and the grounds beneath them into conflict.

She would know the sound of that brass anywhere. Her sister's name left her tongue in a whisper hoarse with disappointment and fear. "Kassandra."

And Lucius Malfoy is not here, either, Severus realized, the blond head that was so easily seen distinctly missing from the crush of people. And he recalled the strange look that had passed between his temperamental cousin and the spoiled aristocrat earlier that evening, and the fact that Granger had noticed it too…and both Kassandra and Granger were on the grounds right now – there were no two other people who could produce these chords of terrifying clarity and ruthless beauty…

His legs were eating the ground before his brain had completed its thought, and he was dimly aware of Klytemnestra in his wake, parting students before them with nothing more than the purpose in their strides.

Desperately wishing for his clarinet to weigh in and soothe the building fury, Severus reached the entryway and made for the side door, Klytemnestra now ahead of him, her shorter legs breaking into a stumbling run as the cold air struck their faces and their feet hit the snow.

888

Lily's breath stopped as she watched the spire of ice reach its peak, catch the moonlight like so many knives, and whistle back towards the earth. She stood frozen, tears running down her face, hands clutching the flute she had yanked from beneath her bed in an automatic, instinctive need to join the world in its celebration. The resounding joy that she had first heard resonated at the core of her being, transcending words and thought and even feeling as she sought to lose herself in a sound that promised a world reborn.

But those vibrations had been clipped short by a harsh blatting that had caused the red-head to physically recoil, her left hand rising to vaguely ward away the blow. Her insides felt squeezed, as if a large hand had come along and wrapped around her ribs, bent on slowly breaking them.

Hermione, she remembered abruptly, and a new horror bubbled up. Hermione was out there, fulfilling some mysterious task, unprotected by stone and glass, under the stars that flared too brightly, as if Heaven itself were part of the unexpected battle.

Shrinking her flute, knowing she needed the length of silver more than she had ever required her wand, Lily seized her cloak and tore for the door, black streaming behind her like a banner as she tumbled down the stairs, praying she was not too late to save her best friend.

888

"You have talent, Daughter of Creation. But if you would rule, you require much in the way of training."

The voice recalling Hermione to consciousness was gravelly and rough in a way that no human being could ever sound. Its sandpaper quality told of the struggle of new roots pushing through topsoil to reach for the life-giving light of the sun, of the creaking and snapping of branches under winter's weight, of the warmth and stickiness of sap running in March and the blossoming wetness of summer. It was not a voice that had ever fallen on her mortal ears, and yet one she felt she had always known as memories of a childhood spent scrambling up great trees and swinging down – her graceful descent the result of a power she did not understand – shafted through her mind.

But though something in the ancient tone warmed her instinctively, her mind retreated from the words it had spoken, and opened her eyes to study their deliverer.

Her first, dizzying, thought as she sat up and pressed her hands to her temples in an effort to get her head to stop spinning with its sudden change of position, was that she had imagined it. Her barrier of many shades of green and brown seemed empty of other sentient life as her gaze swept over the small enclosure. But as she listened, she heard the rasping of breath from near one of the oak trees she had touched in seeking protection and strained her eyesight.

"Lumos," Hermione whispered, lifting her wand. Her eyes relaxed in relief at the flare of illumination, and as the light filled the tiny dome, distinguishing her visitor from the interlaced greenery, the young witch stared.

Her speaker was almost exactly her height, and made entirely of oak. The bottom half looked as though someone had hewn half a goat from once-massive tree, for the finely-carved muscles, cloven feet and twitching tail belonged to the four-legged mountain climber. But the top half belonged to an older man, sunken abdominal muscles clearly etched in the wand light, leading to strong, if narrow, shoulders, a tree-bark beard neither as long as Dumbledore's nor as short as Muggle men kept them curling to end in the middle of his chest. Flecks of bark creased worn facial features, and sap coated his tail and had crusted over his hooves. He looked ancient beyond measure, and Hermione knew, even as she thought it, that it was so. This creature standing in front of her was as old as the tree he resembled, had weathered as many seasons as the forest surrounding them, and as Hermione searched the face for some signal of friend or foe, she had the sense that the headmaster himself would feel like a babe in arms if presented with this visage.

His eyes alone looked human, as they were not made of wood but large and liquid, earth-colored orbs shot through with jade, and currently slotted – whether in displeasure or against the sudden light, Hermione could not tell.

"A faun?" the young woman whispered, staring at this evidence of one more fairytale of her childhood brought to life.

His beard twitched, and Hermione was relieved to see a glint of approval in the widening eyes. "We are a race so long ago consigned to silent observation in the world of magic that I will confess that I had not expected you to recognize me. I am one of Pan's folk," he confirmed with a nod. "A faun. Though that is merely my shape. I am a dryad, the Spirit of the Oak you used." Wind rustled the trees above them, cold and piercing, reminding Hermione that outside of her grove, winter still reigned. The wooden head tilted, one pointed ear listening carefully. When he turned back to her, respect had been added to the other things in his face. "The trees say that the school no longer teaches such things – are they mistaken?"

"No," Hermione answered, dimly impressed by her ability not to stammer while trying to process too much. "I learned when I was younger, from…" here she hesitated. Fiction and fairytales were the truth, but somehow it seemed highly impolite to say so, "…books of gods and legends," she finished. This was also true – although it was genially understood in the Muggle world that gods, legends, and fiction were synonymous.

But the spirit seemed to understand her meaning perfectly, for he nodded sharply. "Surrendering the power of Creation to humans meant that we would one day be relegated to the world of the fairie and mist. We knew that would be the price we paid when we agreed to it. Do not be ashamed of how you know, child."

…power of Creation. Daughter of Creation… "I do not seek to rule," Hermione told the creature softly.

"You were born to rule, Daughter of Creation," the dryad corrected her quietly. "Seek it or not, it is what you must do. That I am standing here before you is proof of your power, for you summoned Life to do your bidding, turned nature to your needs. You were born a witch – the first since we allowed Merlin to harness the power to human form – for a purpose." He cocked his head again and added, "However, it is better to ask than to demand, young one. You will find that you get better results."

A desperate sense of entrapment closed around Hermione with the words this creature uttered, certainty permeating them with all the unstoppable force of a tolling bell. With a sudden flash of insight, she knew what Harry had felt when he had heard the prophecy tying him to the death of Voldemort, naming him either the destroyer or the destroyed. The life she planned, the one she wanted, seemed to have slid through her grasp more quickly than she could blink, slipped away while she was looking the other direction. "...seek the Echo..." Her professors had sent her here to learn this…to tame this power, to mold her into another instrument, just as Harry was being honed to kill. "We are sending you…elsewhere, to learn something vital to the war."

Resentment flared, strong and furious, only to be met by her ferocious sense of duty. She had committed her life to the defeat of Voldemort when she had fallen into a Devil's Snare at the end of her first year. She could only imagine her regret if Dumbledore had not sent her and she had later learned that her immense natural talent could be used to win the war…

And with the same resolve that had stiffened her spine at twelve to follow Harry Potter through a trapdoor guarded by a three-headed monster and face a variety of traps and dangers, Hermione turned back to this new tutor, ready to learn whatever he might teach her. "…if you would rule…" The young woman had no interest in being a ruler of the masses, but if she could master her own magic, she might save her world.

Mroczek had explained the Echo of Creation to her, but now there was no way of trusting what he had said, and even with his explanation, there was too much that she had yet to understand about her purpose. The young woman's mouth twitched in a bitter smile as she reflected on Mroczek's words to her. "You intend to use this knowledge as a weapon, child? Do you have any idea what you could do with your power? Your voice is not a plaything to be used at whim!" It was not a plaything, and the problem was that she didn't know what she could do with it, but from the attack on Diagon Alley and her own fresh experience, it was clear that the sheer amount of power carried by music could be a large factor in any battle. She intended to defeat Voldemort in any way she could, and she had discovered in the Department of Mysteries that the weapon she carried and did not know how to use belonged to her enemy.

"Will you teach me, sir?" she asked, adding the honorific hesitantly. There was no doubt he deserved her veneration, but what was the proper address for a tree spirit?

The dry, rumbling laughed that shook his beard told her that he had seen the many emotions and thoughts crossing her features, and that he approved of her careful thought and her courage. "That is why I am here. You summoned me through your need, and the world has offered me that others might hear, understand and follow you. Though you are mistress of this magic by right of birth, there will be trials you must bear, rituals you must follow, to gain acknowledgement of your mastery from the old races. And only when you have managed to inspire their respect will you be capable of challenging the Other."

"Voldemort." It was not a question, and the dryad gave her a cold look.

"His is a name we do not speak. He has no respect for the world from which he sprang, the earth that birthed the magic he twists to his own ends. He demands, Daughter of Creation, but he does so with much strength, and many cannot stand before his onslaught. Be wary of him – he lacks your innate ability, but has long since made up for it by study and the capture of those who have a shadow of what you possess. His strength is growing, his knowledge formidable. You will have to learn quickly if you wish to gain enough power to conquer him."

He paused, and Hermione, ready to ask another question, instead stilled her tongue and observed him as he swung his head slowly, listening. She was amazed at how easy the motion looked for a faun made entirely of wood, how naturally he moved in spite of the brittleness of the material he was made from. His eyes were smiling when they alighted on her again.

"You will require help, Daughter of Creation, and it has arrived." Hermione frowned for an instant at this obscure statement, but then she heard a voice worming through the heavy coat of leaves and moss shielding her from the forest. There was distress and awe in the tone as it cried her name.

"Hermione!"

It was Lily, and filling her other ear was, "Granger!" in two different pitches, one deeper and one higher, genuine worry stamped on both.

"Open your cocoon, young mistress, and let them in," the dryad prompted gently. "They are your orchestra."

Hermione stared in dismay at the tangle of branches that had protected her. She had not thought through the process of undoing what she had done and the woven wood had all the form and pattern of a toddler's attempt at working a loom. "How?" she asked helplessly.

"Undo what you did," the dryad instructed. "But slowly. It is easier to grow than to shrink." Hermione thought about pointing out that one could simply slice through the trees, but felt herself flinch at that option. These trees had fulfilled her desperate orders and probably saved her life – and they were living things. She could not simply take off their limbs at whim.

She opened her throat, and let sound run through it like water, forming notes without words, asking the earth to reclaim that which she had taken from it.

Again, gaining strength and momentum, as if a conductor had lifted his baton, the forest sang with her, and the rocks from the mountains, and the snow underfoot – and another voice, a boy's voice reaching for adulthood, undeveloped but showing great promise in flexibility and tone. It was Snape's voice, and her eyes were shining in wonder as the trees peeled back their leaves and retracted their branches, as the earth turned to mud underneath her and swallowed the grass and the tiny flowers, and then froze over, the white carpet creeping forward once more to overtake her shoes and soak the bottom of her cloak.

As dark tree trunks and the star-studded sky became visible once more, Hermione found herself gazing into the face of Severus Snape, the passionate intensity that had been so remarkable in Dumbledore's office on the face of a man more than twenty years this boy's senior blazing there once more as his black eyes locked on her. The remarkable transfiguration of his features robbed her of breath and for a moment they stood frozen, as if it were just the two of them, clarity of purpose and power throbbing between them almost tangibly.

Lily saw what she had suspected to be true two months ago when Hermione had opened the Christmas present from Snape, and Klytemnestra could see the opposite and equal reaction that the girl had to her young cousin, the rising tide between two people who were not so much human beings as forces of nature. For a moment, they both seemed limned by the golden glow emanating from Hermione's wand…

…and then it had passed and four teenaged voices chimed together:

"What are you doing here?"

888

Kassandra's first impressions while struggling back to consciousness was that she was freezing cold, and that the surface she was lying on was far from the comfortable bed where she usually greeted the waking world.

Her third realization, as discomfort put the finishing touches on rousing her and she opened her eyes, was that she was not alone.

The shadows were too dark in one corner of the smoky, clouded room where she lay – still bound, and as she struggled into sitting position, part of the shade stretched and detached itself, dropping the dark hood as it glided towards her.

The girl raised in glittering aristocratic society recoiled sharply. The face was far too pale, the nose slotted as no human feature should be, the brown eyes narrowed and diamond-hard as he studied her.

Breathing slowly to even her heartbeat as he advanced on her, Kassandra gathered together the dignity granted by many years of training as a daughter of Anthony Zabini and Elizabeth Prince, and when he halted no more than three feet away, she said in a cold voice, "Lord Voldemort, I presume?" She had never met the self-proclaimed Dark Wizard, but his tread, his fearless ease in dominating the room, the movements that betrayed how accustomed he was to command, made it clear who he was.

He stared at her sharply with this disdainful pronouncement of his name, and Kassandra was uncertain whether he would brush it aside or torture her on the spot. To her complete surprise, he burst into laughter. The sound that bounced back from the stones was surprisingly warm for such a face – a genuinely human sound uttered from features composed of all hard angles and slashing lines.

"Lucius is correct. There is much spirit in you, Kassandra Zabini."

Ignoring the blinding flash of rage that seared her at the sound of Malfoy's name dropped so casually from the reptilian mouth, Kassandra curled her lip. "Abduction and holding someone against their will is a crime punishable by imprisonment in Azkaban," she returned, voice flat in the face of his merriment.

"Only for those fools careless enough to get caught," he replied, and though he did not laugh again, the amusement in his dark eyes grew more pronounced.

Kassandra's eyes narrowed. Her father was owed money and favors by more than half of the senior staff of the Ministry and the Wizengamot. Voldemort might be a very clever and powerful wizard, but when her father heard she was missing – especially since she had already told him about the connection between the Malfoy Heir and the stolen instruments, the lord could not hope to hide her in the face of all the resources her family had at its disposal.

"Ah, but you see, your father will not be demanding such things. Or rather, he will tie them up in going the wrong direction – expending Ministry energy and Galleons and ensuring my safety at the same time. Your presence here is my – shall we say insurance? – for the meeting that I will have with your father." The lord smirked, a doubly unattractive expression on his face, at her look of betrayed surprise at the easy way he read her mind. The smile deepened as dismay replaced shock in her black eyes, and Kassandra felt suddenly cold, as if ice had been blown through her mouth and nose to freeze her spine. The cold came from knowing that she was looking into the face of a man without mercy or conscience. Voldemort enjoyed discomfort and pain in all its forms – mild and severe, physical and mental.

In an exaggerated gesture, the Dark Lord dragged an old pocket watch of battered but gleaming silver, from his robes. Kassandra's mouth twisted slightly with disapproval, in spite of her sudden terror, as the guttering torch light caught the engraving of snakes twining over it. Slytherin colors were all very well – green and silver was an excellent combination for displaying wealth and power. But the obsession with snakes was a trifle childish and melodramatic.

"Not when you can speak to them," the tall wizard in front of her said quietly, and there was no amusement in his face as he looked at her now. "I have nothing but admiration for you, Miss Zabini. I would urge you to remember that – you have a talent that I need, your bloodlines are flawless and your intelligence obvious from your high marks at Hogwarts. Your father has stood against me, but I would hope that all of his children are not so blind as he. In this world, your talent in shackled as a crime. I wish to loose it, to allow you to study what you want, to give you a free reign. What is that you find objectionable about that?"

This declaration and question rolled together was met with a stony silence, Kassandra frantically focusing on what little she had learned of Occlumency from passing references and reading. Voldemort studied her for a moment longer, then strode to the door when she did not speak. "I will meet your father in half an hour, and you will be summoned then. You will not be there to speak or see, but merely to be seen. And I would also ask you to bear in mind, Miss Zabini, in case you are one for rash stunts, that no one will be coming for you. I am not a careless man nor a foolish one. I have been working for three decades to learn what I need to know to conquer the world, and I have taken great pains to harness your family. There will be no rescue party for you, either now or in the future."

He waited until he saw the impact of his words on her fine features, then tilted his head in the model of pure-blood courtesy and let himself out of her dungeon, wards of magic and the distinct sound of an iron key grating in the lock to replace his disturbing presence.

Kassandra let her head fall back against the rough-hewn stone and allowed tears to flow unchecked down her face. The only one who had any clues as to her whereabouts was Hermione Granger, and the raven-haired witch had seen the expression of shocked hurt on the girl's face before the trees had hidden her from view.

The Echo of Creation. She had learned the truth of the power of music at her father's knee, and also of the legendary Node, a unique rank in the world, a title consigned to a Muggle who would never understand their virtuosic talent and never be capable of ruling. Could the slender third-year from across the Atlantic really be one? The world of nature seemed to think so. And, if half the legends were true, a magical Node could effect a rescue – their command of magic capable of slicing though any and all magic set by a mortal creature.

But the Slytherin had sold out the Gryffindor who was rapidly beginning to look like her only chance at salvation, and she could not hide the truth that Voldemort had so baldly stated.

No one would be coming for her.