Disclaimer: Harry Potter and his friends (and enemies) belong to JK Rowling and her associated business partnerish people. Especially Voldemort and Bellatrix LeStrange. I really wouldn't want them.

A/N: This chapter will probably have a few holes, but what with me having been sick the past long time and then trying to align up all the different fiddly bits and pieces of this story it's long past time for a chapter update. So…

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Chapter 92

Harry's first thought was: She'll kill me if I move.

He froze, very carefully not doing anything threatening with his wand. Bellatrix had him cold and she wasn't alone. Someone else had Apparated in with her.

His second thought was: Draco betrayed me.

Bile rose up in his chest and he nearly choked on his fury. I'll kill Malfoy. I'll rip his heart out and fill his chest with burning coals… In his ears he could almost hear a cold, high voice laughing.

Like a bucket of cold water came the realisation: It wasn't Draco. It was me. Voldemort found us because of me. My hate. My anger.

The anger and self-hatred nearly frothed over then, but he couldn't let it. It would only feed strength to Voldemort, already hovering on the edges of thought: malice waiting to take pale form. He took a deep breath and thought of Simon at his shoulder waiting to react to any distress of Harry's. Harry absolutely would not let Simon become target practice. What would Robert Python do? He'd… Well, first of all he'd not have been dumb enough to get caught out in the open like this. Bugger it.

Bellatrix LeStrange leaned over the stone railing and propped her chin on her free hand. She twirled her wand idly, but Harry wasn't fooled: he'd seen her in action and she was cat-quick. "So," she purred in what was for her a conversational manner. "I heard you were in the neighbourhood. Just thought I'd pop by for a spot of torture."

"Oh no. Going to read me those poems you wrote in Azkaban?" he sneered, gripping the leadrope hard. If he lifted his wand she'd kill him where he stood. Damn – he shouldn't have taunted her. His brain really wasn't working this morning. He had less chance of escaping Bellatrix if he was still twitching from Cruciatus.

She only smiled. "I thought I'd carve them into your twitching flesh. I expect your skin is lovely and pale. Blood will stand out all the better."

"I do hope you're not going to be writing out a saga," a familiar voice drawled. Those smooth tones could only belong to one person: Lucius Malfoy. "We don't have all day."

Harry's skin itched at his voice. Damn it – wasn't the man meant to be in Azkaban? Draco had suggested his father might be involved but not actually stated it as such, and Harry had let the topic lie rather than get an already twitchy Draco's back up. The school motto of not tickling sleeping dragons might have been written with Draco in mind. There must have been a mass-breakout from the prison, because it wasn't likely Lucius Malfoy would have been released so early for good behaviour.

A tall, black-robed figure strolled around from the side of the bridge, onto the road and into Harry's view. Unlike Bellatrix, whose cold pale features were alive with malice and whose black hair flew in the wind like a banshee's, Lucius was masked and hooded. The mask was patchily transparent – hadn't Draco mentioned something about being able to see through them thanks to the unicorn blood? – and gave away the lean, proud face that was an older mirror of Draco's. Just how far away was Draco? Harry wouldn't put it past Lucius Malfoy to murder his only child.

Simon flicked his head and snorted – it might have been the mask, however Harry knew Simon well enough now that he could tell that the horse was not merely confused by being presented with a human in a hood and mask but was on his guard at the wand pointed at Harry. The horse had pinned its attention on Malfoy. For some reason private to Simon, Lucius' wand was more annoying than Bellatrix's, even though if Harry had to make a choice he'd throw himself on the mercy of Malfoy over Bellatrix.

Did Malfoy notice something about the horse? His wand swung to cover Simon, and although Harry couldn't quite make out the finer details of the man's expression behind the mask, the tilt of the head was an exact match for Draco's when Draco was intrigued by something new but couldn't quite make up his mind if he was going to hate it, love it, or ignore it because it wasn't useful.

Simon's ears were back but Lucius was uphill and out of immediate reach. Harry might have reached over to scratch the horse's neck and coax that nervous tension out of the quivering muscles which had just tensed up all the way down Simon's neck and were undoubtedly gathering beneath saddle and down to haunches, readying the horse for battle or rapid retreat, but to move now would be to invite a hex. He didn't even dare whisper something soothing. Bellatrix would torture the horse if she thought Harry was fond of it.

Stay calm, Simon, he willed. One move from you that Malfoy doesn't like and you'll be eviscerated.

The first drop of cold sweat trickled down Harry's spine. Simon's nostrils twitched and a malevolent flicker sparked in the stallion's eye. There was a slight shift of weight closer to Harry; a certain lowering of the head and arch of the neck as the horse focussed strength into its shoulders and haunches, Simon growing larger in the corner of Harry's eye. Damn, Harry thought: Simon was smelling his fear. It was ironic, since so much of that fear was on Simon's behalf.

Harry considered putting himself between Simon and Malfoy, but in the next second knew that this would be the worst thing he could do: Simon, defender of idiot colts against werewolves and vrikolaki, and currently showing no sign of wanting to run away, would react violently to the scenario of a member of his herd in harm's way.

"Sagas? Oh, nothing so complicated. I thought I'd make do with a couple of haiku," Bellatrix smirked, and her heavy eyelids flickered. "Our Lord will be intent on his own pleasure, and I doubt he can spare me as much time to play with Harry as he and I would like."

"He'll be here soon enough. Ask him then. You never know when he will be in a magnanimous mood, and, after all, you did capture him."

Bellatrix drew her wand along her lips. "True." She shivered with pleasure. "I can feel him. He's calling our family… coming for the feast…"

Behind his mask, Lucius looked far from pleased. He must have been secure in the privacy offered by his mask because it was an honest expression he wouldn't have shown if he'd known Harry could see it.

So Lucius wasn't as happy playing lap-dog to a maniac as Bellatrix. There should have been some way of exploiting that, but the knowledge Voldemort was on his way had shattered the last chances of logical thought.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. I'm going to die. Fuck. I don't want to die.

Somewhere there was laughter. It wasn't from anyone anywhere near Harry and neither Death Eater reacted to it, but Harry felt it.

Voldemort sensed his fear and was pleased.

There was a swish of Simon's tail, and the stallion tossed his mane and stamped his forefeet.

Steady, Simon. With some effort, Harry forced his shoulders to relax and turned a fraction so he wasn't standing square to either Death Eater. Shame he couldn't ask them to adopt the same non-threatening posture, although Bellatrix was swinging her shoulders from side to side playfully. She was probably the most dangerous, but Simon's attention was firmly on the wand-pointing Malfoy. Something about Bellatrix wasn't as alarming to the horse as Lucius Malfoy – which went to show that even horse instincts could be wrong. There was an air of angry concentration to Simon: the horse seemed to be trying to work something out in its head, and the conclusion he was fast working towards was going to set him off like a volcano. They were downhill and downwind of Malfoy. Harry could smell his cologne. Could Simon smell the sire of Draco?

Perhaps Simon was aware of Malfoy as a competing stallion. The gleam in Simon's eye was changing, shifting in degree of menace from the general, familiar malevolence of Simon weighing up his chances of getting away with kicking Snuffles when Harry was around to get cross and tell Simon off, to that glittering hatred the stallion developed when Remus was near Harry or any of the other students Simon regarded as his personal property.

Poor Remus – it was unfair to have any similarity between Lucius Malfoy and himself pointed out.

Bellatrix giggled again. Harry's silence was amusing her. "You do want to play with me, don't you Harry?" She twirled a lock of hair around one finger.

Malfoy's mood was less whimsical, and Simon's glares were unnerving him. His pale eyes flicked back and forth between Harry and the horse. Cold and to the point, taking in the potential threat Harry posed, he ordered in a clipped voice, "Throw me your wand, Potter."

Harry bit his lip but he didn't have a lot of options – he threw his wand, trying to look like it was costing him his soul. Not far from the truth: a Death Eater with his wand was anathema. Lucius Accio'd it out of the air and under the mask the thin mouth curled in triumph and scorn.

(It had been such satisfaction breaking his nose, Harry remembered.)

"Now he's not going to give me a decent fight." Bellatrix pouted.

"Come up here," Malfoy said curtly, ignoring his sister-in-law.

Harry dropped the rope, hoping Simon would take the hint and wander off down the stream. But Simon plodded after him up the bank, sharp hooves digging into the damp soil, only stopping when he trod on the leadrope.

"Pick that – that rope up," commanded Lucius. His voice was distant, as if he deemed Harry to be less than human.

Like you'd know what it means to be human, you inbred git.

But Harry obeyed without comment. He just had to keep his temper and hope Moody and a billion Aurors showed up before Voldemort.

If wishes were horses…

Bellatrix skipped down the bridge, her laughter jangling like cracked silver bells as Harry reached the road and stood before the two Death Eaters. He kept the leadrope short. Withers and nostrils a-twitch, Simon was close to boiling point. But it was Bellatrix who defused the horse as she clasped her wand in both hands behind her back and showed ever sign of delight at the meeting.

Simon's ears came forward with reluctance as he carefully sniffed at the air. The ears twitched; back, forward… back again…

The woman was baffling the horse – it was as obvious as the aching scar on Harry's head that she was so far off her trolley that she wouldn't be able to touch it was a ten-foot staff, yet Simon didn't know if she was a threat or a friend. Simon hadn't been Obliviated before going through the barrier, so what was his excuse for stupidity?

Harry had the brief but alarming image of Simon seeing the coquettish Bellatrix as a mare in season.

"That was quite clever, Harry-warry," she cooed. "You had everyone thinking you were such a long, long way away. Shame you didn't have the sense to realise that the Dark Lord is quite capable of finding you at any time. Oo-oo-ooo…" she sang as she drew a lightning bolt above her eyes with a forefinger and winked. Her smile showed a flash of sharp white incisor, but the real hunger lay in her eyes.

Harry forced himself not to react or to hold her gaze. He'd already guessed from the sudden temper-flashes earlier that this must have been when Voldemort had pin-pointed his location. No point getting upset now… and the oddest line floated through his mind – Robert Python had written on page 65 that one of the most important things a Mutterer could do was keep his or her cool when everything around them was going to pieces.

Harry took a slow breath and let it out.

"He's com-ming," she sang.

Harry took another slow breath. It caught in his throat: was that the smell of figs? No. Just his imagination. He kept his face impassive and breathed out.

Bellatrix frowned.

Malfoy shifted uneasily then stilled, but his belief in the privacy of his mask betrayed him. He wouldn't have wanted Harry to see the furrowed brow and narrowing eyes of a worried man. "Your Aurors aren't coming, Potter."

Harry nodded. You didn't go arguing with your enemy when he was pointing a wand at you. Harry was trying to break that habit. Oddly enough it managed to lift his hopes: if Malfoy felt it necessary to say something like that, maybe it was a deliberate lie designed to break the last of Harry's spirits. Dimly, Harry realised this wasn't the most logical reason for hope, but it made him feel better and that was the important thing. "Okay."

Bellatrix stopped smiling. "They're off trying to stop Hogsmeade from burning to the ground."

Harry flicked a glance towards where Hogsmeade must be. The ruddy clouds weren't lit from that direction. "So I see."

Bellatrix's brow blackened. "The rabble are in charge of keeping them busy. They are setting fires even as I speak."

"So they'll be setting the fires soon, then."

"They are setting them now!"

"Okay." Harry counted to twenty and then counted down again. Lucius and Bellatrix were giving him funny looks now and neither one was smiling. Harry couldn't help himself ask, "Are we talking before or after lunch?"

Bellatrix breathed out hard through her nose, and Simon gave her a look as if he was beginning to think that, mare in season or not, she mightn't be quite so harmless as he'd first supposed. She bared her teeth. The intention might have been to appear friendly, but it made Harry shudder. It took all his self-possession to hide his reaction.

"Silly Harry," she growled. "So impatient for the party to begin. But don't worry – we don't need the spell-fodder witches and wizards, those wanting to prove themselves or those Imperio'd into following the correct way, they are the distraction for the Aurors. The real Death Eaters are coming here. To watch your death. To see our Lord triumph in his mastery of death." She'd lost that coquettish air and fractured madness jumped and twitched on her fishhook smile.

Harry gave a faint nod. "That makes sense." At his shoulder, Simon seemed to be settling down. Harry had fooled him.

His calm air seemed to be fooling Lucius and Bellatrix, too. He wasn't sure if this was a bonus or not.

Lucius shot a quick glance at Bellatrix. She nodded in return.

Not a bonus.

Harry wouldn't have been quick enough to dodge, but as soon as the wands lifted and spat red spells Simon reared and plunged forward, ripping the leadrope out of his hand and knocking him down. Harry stumbled to his knees, the spells whistling over his shoulders and popping wetly as they hit solid flesh. Stunners – he knew they had to be Stupefy spells from the colour and the peculiar hum, although they set off a crackling, buzzing noise when they hit what had to be Simon. Had the spell in Simon's chest reacted to them? But no more spells were coming, which implied Lucius and Bellatrix thought they'd hit Harry, so when Harry hit the road he stayed there.

Simon?

He sensed the horse behind him. There hadn't been the thump of a falling body or a scream of pain, and that snaky thing hanging over Harry's shoulder had to be the leadrope. It was rough and he'd have smelt the blood if it'd been intestines. Harry desperately wanted to turn his head and look, but then there was a sudden volley of pops and cracks which shocked his ears. They didn't make the leadrope twitch. Had Simon been turned to stone?

Aurors?

Harry cracked an eye open and saw with dismay the black cloaks and pale masks of a swarm of Death Eaters. He hadn't realised there were so many. He let his hands flop open at his sides as he knelt, pretending for all he was worth that the spells had truly hit him. A small movement in the corner of his eye caught his attention for a split second – a hoof: Simon was still standing and capable of a little movement – before someone bounced a pebble off his head.

Loud laughter, even louder when Harry didn't flinch.

"You've got him on his knees!" someone howled, one voice among many. "Malfoy, LeStrange – well done!"

That was the verdict from several of the masked figures, their faces shifting eerily under the partially-transparent masks, mouths shifting as they echoed those words. Looking up through his eyelashes, letting the wan morning light and his glasses shield his eyes, Harry thought he recognised several but couldn't name more than three. Those in his limited view didn't include Narcissa, but he thought that must be Greg Goyle's dad slapping Malfoy on the shoulder. The bristly hair line running down a sloping forehead until it almost reached the heavy eyebrows was a dead giveaway. Lucius rocked under the blows, and only Harry saw the scornful distaste he shot at the massive Death Eater. Nobody was stupid enough to congratulate Bellatrix in any way other than with respectful words, which she lapped up like a cat over a saucer of cream, her eyes slitting happily.

"Nice horse," a man grunted. "Wonder if that's how he got through the Blockade." Harry was aware of someone with a rolling, bow-legged stride coming in from the side to take Simon's leadrope.

"Make sure it's not under any spell to make it attack us," Malfoy said. "I swear it was about to get violent when we Stunned Potter. Some of the residue might have affected it." He almost managed to hide the nervousness in his voice. If Harry hadn't got to know Draco so well he wouldn't have noticed it. So. Malfoy was scared of horses, was he?

The Death Eater holding Simon muttered something over the excited babble of the others. "Hmm. Definitely some Stun here. But it's diffuse. I'd say your spells hit Potter and echoed through contact."

Harry had distinctly heard two spells hit Simon. How many did it take to knock a horse out?

"The beast was touching him –"

"Ah. That'll be it. Aye… Some other spells… something high up and deep in the foreleg – see here just by the chestnut? – that's kind of familiar… and here – eh-up, this looks like some sort of anti-theft charm, although the spin on it is decidedly iffy." A wand appeared in the corner of Harry's vision, and seemed to be reaching above him to tap Simon's chest. The voice got closer to Harry's ear and then farther away as the man bent to examine the spell before straightening with a grunt of approval. "Docile beast. Perhaps the charm's broken. Could have yourself a new mode of transport, Malfoy." There was the sound of a hand patting the horse's neck and a disdainful sniff from Malfoy. "Let's get these reins back into order… might have something out of this lark for myself," the man continued happily to himself.

Had the man actually touched a wand to that anti-theft charm? And was still alive to talk about it?

Protective charm in his chest or no, Simon must have taken both Stuns.

"Those spells might be – oh, stop fiddling with the harness, man. I do hope you're not planning on riding the beast," Lucius sighed irritably. "You never know where it's been."

The Death Eater holding Simon muttered something Harry could barely hear, something about pearls cast before inbred swine.

One silver shoe dragged slowly and soundlessly over the road. Out of the corner of his eye Harry watched it move; Simon slowly realigning balance in the quicksand world of the Stunned, putting one hoof after another in the direction of Harry until the horse was standing with its forelegs almost bracketing the young wizard. The Death Eater told Simon to whoa, but Simon seemed to be ready to stop at this point anyway. Harry hoped the horse wouldn't fall over, but Simon's instinct seemed to be keeping him upright. For what that was worth in the circumstances. Harry wished desperately something would happen to startle the horse and send it galloping away into the dim morning, to go somewhere out of danger. And while happy luck was at it, Draco and a bunch of Aurors swooping down to rescue him would also be welcomed.

Because Harry himself was up a waterway without a propulsion device – or, as Robert Python had put it when comparing a wandless (and brainless) wizard who'd entered a kicking contest with a mule, up shit creek without a paddle. There were Death Eaters all around… there was no way he could escape… why hadn't he learned to Disapparate in the relative safety of the Forest…? he thought furiously, as the Death Eater holding Simon extolled the virtues of edge-creatures like horses to an unimpressed Malfoy.

Great. He'd found a fellow horse-lover, and it just happened to be a Death Eater. He'd be whipping out a bottle of liniment any second now just to prove he was better than Harry at looking after –

Harry caught his breath. Yes, he was far, far up the upper reaches of Shit Creek, but he wasn't as paddle-less as he'd supposed.

"Never mind the animal. Snurff! Why's the brat still alive?" a woman with bad sinuses asked petulantly.

"He lives or dies on our Lord's pleasure, Stainsy," Bellatrix snapped at the snuffly woman. "You twat," she added, just in case her contempt wasn't quite clear.

There was an offended sniff.

"Ladies…" someone interjected tremulously. Harry recognised that obsequious, nervous voice from the one word, even before his eyes cut sideways and he saw through the mask of the hunch-shouldered man to his right, or had Bellatrix round on the man with –

"Oh, shut up, Wormtail you incompetent bungler. Wormy, Wormy Wormtail; can't even use a paintbrush," she added in her girlish sing-song.

Behind his mask Pettigrew flushed dark. "They knew I was coming… twins had this sticky stuff… even a rat can't go that fast with a bottle tied around its neck… twins… no place to transform… dust… a really big spider… who'd've known the twins would use foaming sherbet?… there was a huge cat…" he whined.

"Wormy, Wormy, Wormtail; outwitted by halfwit Blood Traitors…"

His scowl at Bellatrix dripped with resentment but, again, only Harry saw it. The hair down the back of Harry's neck prickled with the sheer force of the hatred he felt for the man – hatred that dwarfed whatever Pettigrew might feel for Bellatrix.

Something twitched, a little maggoty wriggle, deep behind the now-constant pain in his scar.

Maybe they would have a fight and let Harry escape in the melee. Maybe he could do some damage on the way out. Yeah. That little wriggle in his scar was a small thrill at the thought of maiming Bellatrix or Malfoy… and the wriggle grew stronger, setting off an echoing curl deep in his belly when he weighed up his chances of killing Wormtail.

The wriggle bloomed into agony.

Harry… It was a voice on the wind, high and disdainful and hungry, and only Harry heard it.

He tried to focus. The pain in his scar was growing strong enough to make his eyelid twitch.

The pain spiked and Harry bit his tongue, then it lowered to a pain he could manage.

He was sweating again from the pain and trying to control his breathing before it gave him away. All he could do was play for time by pretending he was helpless. Harry deliberately blanked his mind and gave in to gravity; he leaned back as if his body was beyond his control and slid down against Simon's leg.

His thoughts evaporated. For a brief moment there was: the comforting smell of horse, and the dusty resin of trees and old leaves that must be coming from the chestnut trees. The moist earthy smell of the soil dug up by Simon's hooves downslope was almost as good as a warm blanket and a mug of hot chocolate on a cold night. A word – a good word – tickled in his throat.

But the comfort was an illusion and Harry forced his thoughts back into order. Letting his mind drift into nothing was a serious mistake. He only realised he'd compounded his danger when he was on the ground: if Simon's thinking was more seriously compromised than Harry's – a given after two Stunning spells – Simon might stand on him.

But it was worth the risk… Harry's hand was by his pocket… it slipped in….

Unfortunately he wasn't the only one concerned by the possibility of being trodden on; either that or he wasn't being displayed to his best advantage: as a low, respectful murmur ran through the Death Eaters, someone strode forward (shining boots suggesting a thinly-veiled cringe as the someone got close to the scary big horse) and a hand grabbed him by his collar, dragging him up to his feet and away from Simon, knocking his hand out of his pocket, the inconsiderate bastard. There was a spell in there somehow, something like a diffuse unspoken Mobilicorpus lightening Harry. He was jerked back until he was resting against the chest of one of the Death Eaters.

Don't fight… not just yet… Harry ordered himself. Stay calm. Wait for it…

"Here he is, my Lord," purred a voice in his ear. Malfoy, although Harry had already guessed from the sharp cologne. Harry kept his eyes almost shut, trying to look barely conscious, and saw Voldemort stepping forward, his red eyes gleaming with satisfaction.

Harry felt dizzy and for a moment it was Lucius rather than his own knees keeping him upright. Bloody hell. I didn't even hear him Apparate in. He was out of time, but not totally out of options. Harry willed himself calm – not easy with Voldemort stalking towards him and his heart hammering in his throat.

Wait for it…

Lucius gave Harry a little shake.

Wait for it…

"You see?" Malfoy sneered, but respectfully given his master's presence. "Stunned and read-"

NOW! Harry jerked his head back. There was a crunch and a muffled scream. He wrenched free and twisted just in time for the edifying sight of Lucius reeling back, his mask cracked and awry, blood already dripping through his fingers as he clutched at his nose and swore like a Hag.

It was the second time Harry Potter had broken the nose of Lucius Malfoy.

He'd have to celebrate his success later, Harry thought grimly, moving like lightning to stay out of grabbing range of the nearest Death Eaters. A silver hand clawed at him and he dropped and rolled, landing a solid kick on Wormtail's shin that had the little man hopping backwards and emitting staccato yelps.

Harry cursed. He'd hoped to use Malfoy as a human (well, human-ish) shield and maybe even get his wand back, but there wasn't the chance to grab him and a bottle from his pocket, and Harry was after a weapon.

Luck: the first shape his fingers found was the one firmest in memory. They clenched around it.

Death Eaters lifted wands. Simon couldn't have been Stunned too powerfully – either that or the spells wore off faster on edge creatures – because the horse snorted at the sight and swung its rump around as if it had just woken up and found itself in a nightmare and was still deciding who to kick. The Death Eater holding him tightened his grip on the headcollar and leadrope, moving smartly as he anticipated each movement of Simon's and keeping the horse too far off balance to kick anyone – unfortunately there had to be one Death Eater who knew something about horses.

Give me half a second, Simon then we're out of here. Harry leaped up and threw the violet bottle as hard as he could, straight for Voldemort's pale face and exposed neck.

Voldemort reared back and threw up his arm, and the phial smashed against his shoulder. There was a sound like a harp string breaking and tiny shards of glass twinkled in a silvery mist of potion droplets that hummed and glittered and settled in a fine powder over his black robes. It looked like the hairless Dark Lord had an unlikely and unusually pretty case of dandruff.

But Harry didn't laugh.

There was nothing funny about the potion failing.

The Dark Lord was not impressed. His red eyes flashed and Harry's scar burned down to the bone of his skull. He hissed, swearing in Parseltongue, then stepped forward and struck. Not with magic but with the back of his hand, so fast Harry hardly saw him move. He hit Harry hard across the cheek, knocking him down to the ground.

"Unkh…" Not wanting to give Voldemort the satisfaction of his pain, Harry gritted his teeth but couldn't help making a small noise. Harry was down on his hands and knees again, this time trying to control the blossoming agony in his cheek. Was it broken? He moved his tongue experimentally, probing to see if anything moved from the inside.

"Harry Potter…" The words hissed around him and through his scar, trickling into his mind like poison.

Chilled to the bone on this warm morning, Harry looked up and into the mad red eyes of Voldemort and was chilled even further until he felt like he'd never be warm again.

Voldemort leaned down and plucked Harry up by the scruff of his neck. He was stronger than humanly possible and Harry's toes barely touched the road. The clasp of his cloak threatened to strangle him, and Harry swallowed against the constriction. This close, he could see how the tiny droplets of anti-Vivicus potion hovered millimetres above Voldemort's skin, held static by the wards the Dark Lord wore as a second skin. The droplets flickered. They split the ruddy light and around the edges of Voldemort was that shade of blue Harry had seen when falling through infinity.

Could he be looking at time?

Ironic, really, when Harry had run out of it.

"Well, well," Voldemort breathed, and there was a small, excited shiver in his voice that hinted at the rage and fear and triumph Harry could sense more solidly through the scar. Fear? He's scared? Harry stilled his mind as much as he could, trying to find the source of the fear. But with the thicket of wands pointing at him Harry didn't dare so much as blink in a threatening way. He hung limp in the Dark Lord's hold, trying his best to do a rabbit-under-the-gaze-of-a-snake impression. It seemed to work – Voldemort's grimaced smile widened to show the points of his teeth. "Little Harry Potter. My, how you've grown."

"The Aurors are coming," Harry said, putting a tremble into his voice.

There was laughter: a forced whimpering whinny from Wormtail, rubbing his shin, some throaty chuckles, and a few hungry gasps from Death Eaters Harry didn't recognise, several guffaws, and a high cackle from Bellatrix. They were all laughing at him now.

Good.

"Perhaps not so grown after all," purred Voldemort. "I'm sure they'll be along one day. But they're a little tied up this morning. Problems with Hogsmeade burning down around their ears, perhaps? Hmm?" He seemed strangely interested in Harry's reaction to this news.

"No thanks to Wormtail," grumbled Bellatrix. "Never send an idiot to do a woman's work."

Harry didn't dare look towards Hogsmeade. There hadn't been a glow through the murk earlier, but Voldemort sounded so sure. Voldemort, sensing Harry's dismay, licked where his lips should have been with a pale tongue as dead and slimy as a Dementor's hand. Or his own soul.

"Quite right. Narcissa will do us proud, no doubt," the Dark Lord murmured, but it was clear his interests didn't lie in Hogsmeade. Harry quashed the small flicker of hope that came to life in his chest at the prospect of someone who could help the village. Any hint, the merest twitch or sparkle in Harry's eye at Narcissa's name, and Draco's mother would die. Voldemort's eyes narrowed. It was condescending and proud and hate-filled, but it was perhaps the only genuine smile anyone would ever get from the Dark Lord. And it was all Harry's. Oh, yay. "You did know about Hogsmeade, didn't you?"

Was Voldemort finally as insane as Bellatrix? Why was he so interested in Harry's thoughts on Hogsmeade? Harry didn't need to fake being bewildered.

"Hm. Yes. Well, either way, consider your Auror friends' time taken for the remainder of the day. Not that your life will be as long." Another smile, this one indulgent and for the benefit of the surrounding Death Eaters, and his voice lifted: "And he thought his feeble spells could touch me?" He laughed, high-pitched and joyless. He flicked his wand and the glass twinkling on his robes vanished, leaving only the gleam of the impotent potion behind.

"My Lord, you are as strong as ever," Wormtail oiled through gritted teeth. That kick must have really hurt.

Voldemort gave him a cold smile while other Death Eaters rolled their eyes behind the privacy of their masks. "Yes. Some of you might have noticed my reaction to the two trees being deactivated, but I have since distanced myself from the barrier spells." He turned his smile back on Harry. "I suppose you were hoping that bringing down the third tree would strike me down with agony."

Harry had, yes, but now wasn't really the time to admit to it. He felt the cold tendrils of Voldemort's mind ooze over his, and shuddered. That was genuine – he didn't need to fake his horror.

Voldemort chuckled dryly. "And you think that when the barrier comes down, Hogwarts will be free." He nodded. "You are correct. It will be free. Free for the taking."

A few Death Eaters were quick enough off the mark to laugh – others needed an elbow in the ribs to get them up to speed.

"Yes, yes," the Dark Lord snapped. Harry sensed he wasn't the only one who had had a stressful few hours. "Soon. With its wards weakened by my temporal spell, Hogwarts will be ours in a matter of hours. You've done my work for me, Harry. I thank you."

Laughter. Harry gritted his teeth. He was rapidly going from terrified to annoyed by the fact that his enemies were a bunch of idiots who wouldn't know a decent joke if it walked into a bar with a horse and introduced itself.

"…And I shall need something to strike the final spike of fear into the hearts of those who might still be foolish enough to defy me. How about a head? A head to decorate my standard for my triumphant entrance! Yours should do nicely, Harry – after all, your capture was the main point of today's exercise. Now… which spell shall we use to harvest it…?"

A blackbird in the chestnut tree suddenly rose, clattering an alarm call.

Voldemort bared his teeth and swung his head around to see what the threat was.

The Aurors were busy with something at the very least – Harry couldn't doubt Voldemort's surety of that – and Draco was Merlin knew where. The wand was off him for half a second: that was all the chance he could hope for.

Harry twisted free and, as Voldemort lifted his wand to hex him, threw the first bottle that came to hand. Voldemort had been expecting something more and whispered a spell that caused the protective barrier to widen. He was laughing.

His laughter vanished; his smile twisted into a grimace in the next moment.

The bottle smashed on the invisible armour and let out a terrible smell of something along the lines of fermenting skunk doused with vomit – or so Harry imagined, because he hadn't dreamed anything could ever, ever smell so bad. The barest traces tingled in Harry's nostrils – Harry had been holding his breath in case the bottle contained poison – but it was enough to make his stomach lurch. Instead of pain, his scar jolted with Voldemort's outrage.

You… you disgusting… you foul WRETCH!

Like their master, the Death Eaters hadn't had that happy idea of holding their noses. Wormtail, who'd insinuated himself at his master's elbow, went down on his knees, retching like he was at the end of a pub crawl. It looked particularly nasty coming through the holes in his mask. He wasn't the only one throwing up. Harry was going to be sick himself just from the sight.

Voldemort reeled back with his hand over his mouth and nose. He kicked at Wormtail and nearly skidded over in the vomit. His pale face was tinged with green. It looked almost Christmas-y with his red eyes.

All this mightn't have aided Harry's escape – there were plenty of Death Eaters out of range of the stink, like a highly annoyed Lucius Malfoy still holding his bloodied nose – but the miracle he needed occurred.

In the best tradition of classical miracles, it was heralded by the sound of thunder. The storm still mulling things over off to the north couldn't have made the noise – this sounded like every cloud had collided at once, splitting the sky.

Harry looked around, as did Voldemort and all but those Death Eaters still too busy gagging over their last meal. Across the stream, the blackbird flew out from the tree and away as fast as its wings could carry it, followed by several sparrows and a pair of thrushes, winging their way east as if their lives depended on it.

The noise had come from the west. Hogwarts? Had Elmsworthy finally blown up the castle, or had the barrier somehow eaten away some crucial ward of Hogwarts and left a giant pile of rubble entombing everyone sleeping inside the castle?

Upwind from the stink, Simon bobbed his head and snorted.

The rocking thunder ebbed away to the east, leaving a rushing, rumbling in its wake. To the west and above, the clouds coiled in on themselves and lifted as if they were too frightened to come this close to the ground and disaster, leaving behind them swathes of mist and rain. It was the first time Harry had been able to see so far across the countryside he'd been riding.

Far up the valley towards the north west, to the right and not too far along the downhill road from where Harry had found the paddock with the cows and the dead farmer, he could make out the dim huddle of farm houses. If he'd known he was so close to people he would have gone looking for them after breaking the spell on the barrier tree. Faint through the thin rain and distance could be heard the terrified barks and howls of dogs. And the trees and hedges over where the thunder had come from now trembled and bowed as if a massive, invisible hand brushed over them, a hand sweeping towards the small knot of black-clad figures, leaving little crackling ribbons of energy where it touched warded gates and fences; the sheep across the valley milling in fear then being bowled over by the force of what was approaching; a hedge ripped up by the roots in a long sinewy twist of green ribbon ploughing into the distant group of farm houses…

"My Lord…" The voice was muffled behind a hand holding a nose shut.

Voldemort raised his hand for silence. His own nostrils had pinched themselves closed. His expression was taught with – could it be? – fear. He opened his mouth to speak, and –

A great wind hammered into them. Robes and hair streamed. Twigs and pebbles flew like tiny wasps. Harry dropped to his knees again and squeezed his eyes closed: as grit peppered his skin, he'd never been so grateful for his glasses before. He felt the wind scream through his hair and ears and dig into his skin with an unnatural hunger as it scoured the magic from every inch of exposed skin. People screamed as gravel sprayed them, and then screamed louder as the magic was ripped out of them.

With his hands cupped around his face, Harry opened his eyes again. They widened as they saw the last fragments of the magical ring around his finger unravel and blow away. What the hell is going on here? he thought. And how am I going to contact Draco now?

In light the colours of curses and hexes, charms and jinxes – all the colours of spellcraft Harry had ever seen – magic spun from wands and unspun from wizards and witches and was whipped away by the wind.

A witch with a bracelet curling around her wrist shrieked and clawed at it as the metal smoked and the protective charms crackled and broke. Wormtail writhed on the ground as his hand spasmed. Masks and Death Eater robes burst into flames that burned and did not consume, and blew away in sooty rivers. With a yelp, Lucius was picked up by a gust and flung down the slope in a flurry of robes and pale hair. One particularly tall man clawed at his mask as magic ripped from behind it, and Harry was shocked to recognise the ravaged face of Travers, a man he'd last seen as a boy at breakfast twenty-one years ago. Now he wore an eye-patch which had ribbons of purple and green magic ripping from it, blown away on the wind, and the man staggered and threw back his head and howled with pain.

Voldemort was an exploding galaxy as his protective charms fought back against the tempest, and the anti-Vivicus potion swarmed across his skin in clinging ripples of silver.

Silver shoes flashed as Simon pranced. Red streamed from his mane and tail. Spells coiled in his chest and foreleg and flared bright, bright argent from the shoes. Graphite and yellow lines streamed across black hide and the horse seemed to dance against the grey sky. The spell in his chest began to spin faster.

Voldemort shrieked and stumbled to his knees, and the clouds of magic that billowed out from him were ink glittering through with dark stars; his hands scrabbling and clutching at his skull in an agony Harry felt echoing through his scar. Deep in his veins could be seen tarnished silver, and something in Harry recognised it and

there was the sudden hard focus of roots readying itself for the inexorable breaking of stone.

Voldemort clenched one hand and several Death Eaters screamed, clutching their arms – Harry felt the Dark Lord's sapping all the magic he could get from his supporters, and even Simon squealed, echoing the agony Harry felt through his scar, and the horse thrashed its head and ripped the leadrope from the man holding it.

Simon might have run then, but he was hemmed in by Death Eaters. He curved back towards Harry as if Harry could make sense of chaos. Harry reached up and took the leadrope and Simon dragged him to his feet.

The gale roared through the trees. Would it ever end? It kept ripping away magic, the Death Eaters collapsing where they stood, unable to Disapparate, until only Harry, who was sheltering in the lee of Simon, was the one left standing on two legs.

Was all magic being drained from them?

No, Harry realised: the wind was only snatching superficial magics away from them. While his skin felt like it was being sandpapered, the deeper thrum of magic he'd always felt in his bones was resonating like a struck bell, but it was staying firmly anchored. The angry pulsing ache in Harry's scar peaked and then faded and Harry was astonished to see what looked like smoke swirl from a point just above his eyes.

Finally the gale ebbed and Harry felt Voldemort's rage and remaining power surge back in an answering wave, the anger like a raw wound where his scar should be as the Dark Lord gathered in strength from his followers and focussed it into his fear and loathing of Harry Potter.

Voldemort picked himself up. He turned to face Harry and bared his teeth. Stay. You will not move.

For a moment, Harry froze, caught in the mad, red eyes; Voldemort's words congealing in his mind. His wand – he should get his –

Lucius had rolled down the slope. There was no way Harry would be able to get to his wand in time. A bottle could –

"Hold him fast," hissed Voldemort, his white hands shaking.

A burly figure snatched at Harry's cloak.

Simon snapped at him. The Death Eater yelped and flung himself backwards.

"Fool!" snapped Voldemort.

Others were getting to their feet, shaking their heads, lifting their wands, lengths of wood gleaming as a gust of wind brought successive waves of warm then cold then warm rain…

Another Death Eater tried his luck – this one was smart enough to grab at Harry from the opposite side to Simon.

Harry kicked out, catching the man in the knee, then tried to swing up onto Simon's back. He missed as the horse skittered sideways.

"Stop him!" shouted the Dark Lord. He seemed to have dropped his wand, Harry realised. Maybe Simon would stand on it…

A hot spell whistled over his head and Simon bucked in terror as it crisped a lock of his mane. The yellow and graphite lines under his skin suddenly sparked to new life, feeding out of the spinning charm in his chest, and making the horse appear brittle; hollow; a thing of paper.

Mental fingers crossed Simon hadn't been hexed or that weird charm in his chest hadn't been damaged by the gale enough to make him disappear, Harry held tight to the leadrope and Simon spun around him in a circle. A few of the Death Eaters still on the ground were unlucky enough to have a hoof land on them – Simon was too distracted to properly worry about his footing, but Harry took every howl of pain from a Death Eater as justice, especially when it happened to be Bellatrix LeStrange's wand hand crushed underhoof.

He stuck his foot in the stirrup and this time made it into the saddle. He yanked hard on the leadrope to stop Simon running down the slope – there was no way the horse could jump that stream and they'd be cornered between the bridge and the trees.

Simon shook his head, pigbucked, and kicked out at another Death Eater in fright, and Harry fell, landing on an anonymous Death Eater, and nearly lost his hold on the leadrope.

Only the horse's white-rimmed eyes rolling back towards in the west in terror warned Harry in time: he picked himself up off the road and clung tight to the halter, giving the Death Eater a kick for good luck.

There was the hiss of gravel and leaves and the hedges bent…

The second battering gale smashed across the land and there was the sound of groans and snaps from the chestnut trees as branches weakened by the first gale bent and broke. A bough ripped free and swung, falling with a rustling crash over Lucius, who was already cursing as he crawled his way back to the road. His voice cut off. Simon was pushed sideways and his shoes skated on the road. The magic crawling under his skin ruffled in grey and yellow waves like the surface of a stormy lake. Any Death Eaters who'd regained their feet were bowled over – only Harry was left standing, and that was simply because he was hanging onto the terrified Simon.

The gale passed, and the wind died back to its former, unmagical level, tossing Simon's mane and sprinkling the road with a wave of rain.

Harry realised three things at once: his wand was out of reach; Voldemort was already picking himself up and this time he had his wand in his hand along with the type of murderous expression on his face that meant he wouldn't be playing time-wasting games to give the Aurors time to arrive; and thirdly that there was no way he'd be able to hold Simon for more than two seconds maximum.

The red of Stun residue streaming from the black mane and tail, the spell in its chest glowing along with one stuck high in the inside of its foreleg, the horse was already swinging away, ears back and eyes rolling so the whites showed, muscles bunching as Simon launched himself from a standing start into a gallop, but Harry used every ounce of strength in his arms and dragged himself up onto Simon's back, fingers skidding on the rain-slick saddle before grappling for a better hold and tangling in the black mane.

"Go, Simon! Go!" he shouted, leaning along the horse's neck. He kicked the horse hard, but it wasn't really necessary; it was only his hands in Simon's mane that kept him aboard the horse because he didn't have his feet in the stirrups and he was very nearly left behind as Simon accelerated, a racehorse in the race of his life.

Simon parted the squealing, shrieking, cursing Death Eaters like straggly rows of corn and bounded over the bridge in awkward, leggy horror, shoes skidding on the slick stone. On the far side he regained some control of his hooves.

The horse flicked its tail, laid back its ears, and flew down the road like a cannonball.

ooOOoo

A/N: BSM = butyl seleno-mercaptan. Look it up. Just don't try buying it on eBay. They might send it to you.

ooOOoo