CHAPTER 44: A HOSTAGE SITUATION

Hermione had been having such a good day. Sure, she'd been a bundle of nerves before the exams, but not everyone could be Sparhawk. Though she planned on catching up. Her exams themselves had gone beautifully. She was sure she'd gotten everything right, and with how Sparhawk had been recently, (which was, he'd not been there at all), she was sure she was on track for top of the year. Although Sparhawk might have been a bit better in the practical aspects of the thing (he'd absently breezed through the whole thing, much to the astonishment of his teachers who all asked one thing "What if he'd been really trying?"). Then, riding on the high of things well done, she decided the only thing to do about the entire affair with Professor Snape's laundry was to ask Headmaster Dumbledore. Why not Professor Snape himself, you ask? That's what they'd been doing the previous weeks, one by one, and the only thing it had resulted in had been detentions and a steadily decreasing count of their house points. By golly, couldn't the man see it was for the well-being of one of the students? She'd had it and was now going to see if the Headmaster could make him see sense.

She'd stormed off in a rather forceful fashion, only to realize she had no idea where the Headmaster's office was, which was quite embarrassing when you considered they'd been living here for the better part of a year. So, although she was quite astonished when she ran into Professor Quirrell (who looked somewhat worse for wear, really) in one of the corridors, she was also secretly relieved. "Professor, I need to see the Headmaster. Can you take me to his office?" she'd asked in a pleading tone, and Quirrel had gone very still and very strange. "P..P…Professor Dumbledore?" he squeaked. She nodded. "Well, turn around now. It's that way…" and that was the last she remembered before she'd woken up God knows where with Quirrell and what was that on the back of his…She screamed.

Sparhawk watched as Quirrell maneuvered a visibly shaking and sobbing Hermione in front of the mirror. He hadn't noticed him yet, hidden as he was beneath his invisibility cloak, and in the shadows for good measure. "What do you see?" the man asked, his hands clamping down on the little girl's shoulders. Hermione just screamed more. Voldemort whispered something and Quirrell roughly turned Hermione round and soundly slapped her. Sparhawk saw red. But he was too far away, and Quirrell was right by her, and he couldn't take the risk. Not yet. Then a thought suddenly struck him and his hopes lifted. That mirror looked an awful lot like the one Aphrael disappeared into. If so…

Quirrell had now turned around so that Voldemort was facing the trembling girl. "Look at me, child" he hissed, gently. Hermione sobbed harder. "Look at me!" This time, she managed to bring herself marginally under control and fearfully brought her eyes to bear on the abomination that was Voldemort.

"Why were you looking for Professor Dumbledore?"

"I…I…"

"Speak, child!"

"I just wanted Snape's clothes!" and Hermione began sobbing again.

"Sparhawk cursed his luck.

Voldemort stared at the sobbing, mudblood girl.

What.

What had he just heard?

Snape's clothes?

Was it some sort of code? As in, you give a house-elf clothes; so, Dumbledore was going to give Snape clothes? Was that it?

Or did she really just want Snape's clothes? As hand-me-downs perhaps? But the size, not to mention the sex…

Voldemort stared at the frustrating mirror and then at the frustrating girl. That was it. He was done with this. He was just going to steal the entire mirror, somehow.

Quirrell felt his master's orders.

He turned.

He pointed his wand at the girl.

Sparhawk needed to act. He recognized that look in the other man's eyes, the set of his shoulders (which got a bit tricky considering the two faces). He'd seen it too many times, felt it firsthand. Voldemort was going to kill Hermione.

There wasn't time for anything else. He cursed and whipped off his invisibility cloak. Bringing his wand to bear on the ex, and if Sparhawk had his way, soon-to-dead Dark Lord, he called out in his deepest voice, which wasn't saying much.

"Drop your wand!" Hermione was too close to try anything fancy.

Voldemort turned, well Quirrell turned, well, they ended up facing Sparhawk which was the main bit.

"Harr…"

"It's Sparhawk."

"Sparhawk!" Voldemort hissed.

Sparhawk sent a quick prayer to Aphrael, hoping she was listening. "Let the girl go, and I'll let you live" he warned Quirrell, his voice flat.

Suddenly there was a wheezing sound from the back of Quirrell's head. Sparhawk's stomach dropped when he realized Voldemort was laughing. He had a bad feeling about this.

"We have the boy." Voldemort hissed, "Kill the girl."

Quirrell brought up his wand to Hermione's temple and began the syllables of the death curse "Ava…"

Sparhawk's other hand flashed from behind him even as he realized he wouldn't be fast enough.

Hermione decided it was all too much for her and her legs gave out at just the right moment.

"…da Kedavra!" The flash of green light from Quirrell's wand missed Hermione's head by a hair and struck the mirror.

The knife Sparhawk had thrown buried itself in Quirrell's shoulder. His wand dropped from nerveless fingers.

There was an almighty bang and a flash of white.

When Sparhawk's vision returned, he found himself against the far wall. His whole body hurt and his face felt wet. He touched a hand to it and it came away sticky. Probably his nose. He squinted through the spots and found Quirrell thrown a few feet away, his robes smoking slightly. Inexplicably, Hermione lay sobbing just where she'd fallen, a circle of pristine floor surrounding her. She seemed unharmed.

Sparhawk reached into his robes. Out came the hat. As he walked purposely toward Quirrell, it shone and changed into a short sword. Reaching the man who had just begun to weakly stir, he slid the point of the sword gently under his ribs, angling upwards. Quirrell sagged. Then he withdrew the sword, blade gleaming red and silver, and holding up Quirrell's head, he stabbed it full through and through, skewering both his faces. There was a short scream and then silence.

Wiping the blade clean on Quirrell's robes, he turned around to check on Hermione, who was staring at him in a mixture of relief and horror.

"Sparhawk!"

He gave her a quick once over and since she seemed to be fine, pulled her to her feet. He noted with some apprehension the scared looks she was shooting him.

"Sparhawk, your nose is broken!"

"I know."

"Sparhawk, you just killed a teacher!"

"Needs must, Hermione"

"Granted, he had Voldemort in the back of his head, but…" she was babbling now. Sparhawk sighed. Hopefully, the shock would last for some more time before the hysteria set in. That way he could guide her out of there easier.

"Sparhawk!" Hermione wailed. Well, tough luck.

"Look, Hermione," he began, turning to her and stopping. She was staring at something behind him. He swirled around, bringing his wand to bear, sword already cutting an arc through empty air.

From the sad heap of Quirrel's body, a black mist was beginning to rise. It soon coalesced into a cloaked, smoky wraith with an all too recognizable face. Sparhawk pushed Hermione behind him and pointed his wand at the shadow. A muttered cutting curse which an eleven-year-old boy had no business knowing failed to do much.

He could feel it now. The wrongness. Several folds magnified. As if the shell of Quirrel's body had kept it hidden from the world. It was impossible. It was improbable. But as he had feared all those days ago, he could sense it. The touch of Azash in Voldemort.

"FOOL!" screamed Voldemort, "DIE!"

Sparhawk was ill-equipped to take on something like this. But fighting this kind of darkness to keep children like Hermione safe was exactly why the church knights were formed. Sparhawk gripped his sword in both hands and stood to meet the fiend, muttering a prayer to his deity.

But just as the wraith that was Voldemort was almost upon them, a silvery hand shot out from the still-smoking mirror and grabbed it. Where the creature's shadowy substance met glowing appendage, it burned and sizzled and it screamed; an unearthly, wicked sound.

Out of the mirror came the well-loved visage of Flute, the timeless Child Goddess Aphrael. Her form was insubstantial as mist and she glowed with a silver light that seemed to burn away all darkness. Behind him, he vaguely noticed Hermione mutter, "My God" and drop in a dead faint. Aphrael turned her face to him in an impish smile. "Miss me, father?"

And then she turned to the still shrieking thing she held in one childish fist, her grip vice-like. She held up a closed fist and slowly opened her fingers. In it lay a blood-red stone, at once familiar and not. "Looking for this?" she asked mildly.

The figure thrashed and screamed. "MINE! MINE! GIVE ME IT! GIVE ME IT!"

And then, still smiling, the Child-Goddess lifted the stone to her mouth and took a bite out of it, as one would from a particularly juicy apple. Voldemort was now screaming incoherently. She quickly finished it off in dainty little bites, wiping off a bit of red juice from her chin. "Urp! That was potent. And now for you…"

She brought both her hands to bear on the writhing shade and squeezed. There was a sudden drop in the pressure and a blinding flash of light, and Voldemort popped out of existence.

A/N: Penultimate chapter done. One more to go.