A/N: More words, and a flashback chapter!

Content warning: Major Character death, graphic violence.

Some suggested listening to set a mood – Tunnel of Love, by Dire Straits

In Harry's opinion, the thing about dementors that made them so horrible was not the soul eating. The soul eating is awful, of course, but after the fact it can hardly hurt you. A cessation of existence is, after all, a cessation of pain. The worst thing about dementors is being forced to relive your worst memories, the waking nightmare as directed by the person who knows how to bring you to your lowest; yourself.

Harry recognises those screams because he made them with his own voice, and his mind keeps the nightmare alive by reliving it in dreams over and over, night after night.

Only now he isn't dreaming. Now, he is falling to the floor at a cocktail party on an island in the middle of the sea.

In his third year, his worst memories were hazy, barely remembered from a time before his mind was good at making memories. Flashes of speech and screams, flashes of green. He and Lupin discovered that he was especially susceptible to dementors, even the watered down dementor effect produced by the boggart, often becoming aware of their approach well before his peers and always being hardest hit by their effects. He would feel that intense cold, he would hear his parents screams, and eventually he would black out…

Now he is an adult his worst memories are sharp and clear. His worst memories recall a time when, instead of his mother, it was himself who screamed until he was hoarse.

He is furious with himself for not realising it sooner, because he felt the cold, here, in the cellar, and on the beach. He has heard the quiet screams and, despite regularly waking with that same scream on his lips, it is only now he recognises them.

Hermione even found the smoking gun inside the bell jar in the lab, but still he didn't put one and one together. Now, as realisation comes too late, he is blacking out.

The only thing that still puzzles him is that there isn't a dementor in sight.

Harry's worst memory, and the dream that plagues him, begins like this;

Hermione's soft hands hold his, as she stands in front of him, shyly looking up. The mistletoe above them is merely an excuse because they have kissed hundreds of times before. He smiles down at her, amused by her suddenly playful act. It's not that Hermione isn't romantic, because she is, it's that she's never usually outwardly shy. She has a soft, caring side, a sentimental side, that she rarely shows to people. He always treasured being one of the few people she let past the perfect prefect façade and into her confidence as a valued friend, but he understands now that even that was a guise of a different sort. He sometimes wonders if even this version is just him looking on another face of hers, like a gemstone with each facet cut for a particular purpose. If it is, then he likes to flatter himself that this is a persona of hers only he gets to see.

What he doesn't do, is doubt that this version of her is real. Indeed, he doesn't doubt that any of the versions of her he has met over the years are real – none of them are any less 'real' than the others. Harry knows what it is like to be more than one thing at the same time, both hero and villain, both adored and isolated. Sometimes even to the same person at the same time. The best he can do is to get to know these different hers until he can somehow fit the whole of her within his vision and know her truly and fully, even if it is as impossible as trying to view all the sides of a cube at once.

Through conversation he knows she feels as much self-doubt and confusion as anyone, but he has always marvelled at how composed she seems. Even when she admits to freaking out, she still manages to outwardly remain calm, still manages to keep her head in the worst of situations. It's been over five years since she froze in the Devil's Snare, and since then he can't think of a time when she wasn't prepared to act.

Which is why he always feels so blessed to be the only thing that ever seems to put her on the back foot, the only thing she seems to allow herself to be surprised by. As he softly runs his thumbs over the back of her hands, he reflects on how grateful he is that she still seems to be interested in him, still attracted to him. That he can still elicit a soft blush by leaning down and pressing his lips softly against hers.

In reply, she leans into him, bending her leg at the knee and lifting her foot behind her, he can feel her playful smile as she silently teases him. It's a little, private in joke with them. A few years ago there was an older girl in Hufflepuff who used to do the same thing – whenever she kissed someone her foot would go up. Harry and Hermione had used to giggle about it, thinking it a bit frivolous and a little vain. They had their first kiss in fifth year and they had both been so awkward and nervous, until Hermione had mischievously imitated the older girl and brought them into fits of laughter.

As they laughed together, they had relaxed and soon found they had no more trouble in that department, but the in-joke had stuck. It had gotten to the point where he missed it when she didn't do it.

She is still smiling as they separate slightly. Being young and in love, Harry leans in again to kiss the corner of her mouth, which causes her to laugh.

"You are such a softie," she accuses, grinning.

"As it turns out, I guess I am." He lets go of her hands and slides his arms around her waist. "You just bring it out in me."

She shakes her head but reaches up to hug him in return. A classic, bone crushing hug, "As pleasant a reminder of your affection as this is, people are beginning to look, and I do have to make a start on that paper for Professor Flitwick."

He releases her, teasing "That Charms paper isn't due for another fortnight! You just want to escape these public displays of affection."

She rolls her eyes, but the rest of her expression is pleased, "Well, the common room is hardly the place for these sorts of things," she lowers her voice to a whisper, and her eyes seem to sparkle, "besides, I wouldn't mind receiving some private displays of affection."

It's his turn to blush slightly, as he slides one arm around her waist, "Well, you know I'm not against sneaking out after curfew…" Even though they have been dating for two years now, he still finds himself delightfully embarrassed by her interest, or her cheeky insinuations, and the lightning feel of her hip rubbing against his as they walk together does nothing to reduce the feeling.

She chuckles, "Essay first, thank you. Making out later."

With no warning their lives are changed forever.

The portrait is rent apart from the other side, canvas splitting and tearing, and the room falls silent as every head turns to look. A great divide runs from the top to the bottom. Many students take a step backwards in surprise and fear.

This, apparently, was insufficient destruction because the frame itself is shredded into nothing but great shards of splintered wood.

Through it steps a figure from nightmares.

A woman, of average height and build, pale of skin with dirty blonde hair and cruel thin lips, bursts through the ruined frame. She is dressed in thin, filthy clothing, canvas shirt and trousers that hang lose on her with worn holes in the fabric, and drenched in what must be blood. It covers her lower arms, her chin and lips, and there are great splashes of it on the rest of her body. It is wet and fresh. It is Ron's evening to patrol as a Prefect out in the castle, and Harry desperately hopes he hasn't already met her. Hopes that none of the blood soaking her clothes belongs to him. She wears no shoes and leaves footprints of blood behind her as she moves.

And she moves fast.

Already the screaming has started. Without a word to each other the pair leap into action. Hermione has her wand out and is busy shepherding students towards the dormitories. The only exit is on the wrong side of this woman, and hiding in the dorms may buy them a few precious moments.

It is clear what she is. Even if the blood didn't make it obvious, the super speed, lightless eyes and distinctive teeth make it plain.

Some of the older students, including Harry, stand and fire ineffective spells in her direction. Nothing even so much as connects. One second a group of them are together, Harry, Seamus, and a group of sixth years he thinks are called Hayley, John and Yan.

The next she has ripped Seamus apart.

One moment he was whole, and the next she holds his spasming torso in one hand and is discarding his lower half with the other. Very quickly he stops struggling, and then he is nothing but two sad heaps, a haze of pink blood misting in the air.

And there is so much blood. He does not need to imagine how she came to be covered in it.

She breathes deeply, her tongue flicking out into the air. The sixth years break. Having lost their nerve, they frantically make a dash for relative safety with the rest of the retreating students. The vampire begins to indiscriminately attack the fleeing kids, throwing them around, clawing them, biting some of them.

Harry counts at least seven or eight of them taking injuries he thinks are severe. He is almost sure one of the fifth years is dead. The mass of the crowd makes it almost impossible to use anything substantial against her – he can't afford to sweep fire across cowering first years.

He does manage to make a cutting curse connect with her, a bright red ribbon opening across her back, but the damage is healed almost instantly.

She turns to face him and he doesn't waste any time in firing again.

As the last of the fleeing children are emptying from the room his goal of relieving the kids is achieved, but the cost appears to be that her murderous attention is focused on him now. He suddenly understands that she is playing with them. This is fun for her. He can see in her expression that the carnage and the violence are entertainment.

She is charging towards him and he does the only thing he can think to and a great domed shield charm bursts into being, interposed between her and him. She impacts the wall of force and bounces off it, the shield making a strange reverberating bell noise as she does so. It and the noise fade away but already she is pressing the attack again.

He tries the shield again, but she has learned. She leaps forward at the last second and this time she is inside the dome. Now he is trapped in here with her.

Unceremoniously, her hand closes on his wand arm. She snarls down at him as he tries to pull away, but he is nothing compared to her strength and he might as well be trying to fight a glacier or a mountain. She holds his arm in her grip and plucks the wand from his hand as the shield charm dies.

She tosses the stick far into the corner of the room and her hand returns to grasp him by the throat. He can see an awful coating of blood on her tongue and inside her mouth as she speaks in a rough, hoarse voice.

"You're shorter than I thought you'd be."

She lifts Harry clean from his feet, as if he was nothing. A doll, or a toy. He kicks in mid-air, instinctively looking for something to get purchase against, his hands come up to clutch at the arm holding him by the neck. Despite the blood which slicks her hand, her grip is more than secure, crushing him slightly. The ragged sleeves of her soiled and tattered sweater are soaked through with unimaginable viscera and gore.

His eyes are drawn to the thick, red liquid that drips from either side of her mouth. He can see the great, elongated canines inside her darkly exalted grin, and those vicious eyes, the pupils dilated and engorged long past any point recognisable as human. Her expression is one of cruel triumph, of sadistic revelry.

With no wand and completely physically outmatched, he does the only thing he can.

He closes his eyes, and preys that it is quick.

Hopes that, whatever she does, he doesn't end up like Seamus.

Suddenly Hermione comes out of nowhere, like an avenging angel, wreathed in righteous fire. The flames lick the common room from wall to wall as she advances towards them, her expression no less intimidating than the vampire's. Her chin strikes out in determination, fury in her eyes and a scowl across her forehead.

The bravest of the inhabitants of the paintings who did not flee into safer frames at the vampire's approach certainly do now, as the flames consume the rugs, the sofas, the tapestries, the gilt-edged frames, and finally the paintings themselves. The paint bubbles and pops, briefly, as the incredible heat surges forward.

Hermione must have finished herding the children away and then returned to look for him. Despite his predicament, a small part of him is relieved to see her. Together they have fought their way out of dangerous situations, and she rekindles the tiny flame of hope in him. Surely the portraits or ghosts would have alerted someone by now … surely someone is coming to help. Surely, they just have to hold this monster off for just a little longer…

Hermione herself is a model of furious concentration, but otherwise there is barely even a hair out of place on her head. Dark tendrils of flame and smoke swirl down towards them, a veritable torrent of fire, and the vampire shies away a step, swinging Harry with her as she turns to face the threat.

He gasps in pain, as his body continues to swing with the momentum of the movement, pulling at his neck which almost causes him to miss the familiar feeling of the flame-freezing spell engulfing him. It feels like stepping into an ice-cold shower on a scorching hot day and it tells him exactly what her plan is.

It doesn't help his fear, either from the monster that has him fully within her grasp or from the approaching vortex of flame. The assailant hastily leaps backwards, driven by a primal and very understandable fear of the fire. She glares at Hermione intently, her face drawn in intense calculation, until she seems to come to a conclusion.

Without wasting a second Harry is roughly slammed into the ground, his vision goes blurry and a ringing starts in his ears. The back of his head is a great red spot of pain, a storm that rages through his mind practically preventing himself from thinking. Unconsciously he reacts by bringing his arms up to cradle his bruised and injured head, which is the only reason he is not completely pinned by one of great wooden tables, the kind he has spent countless hours at working on his homework, that she lowers on top of him with surprising care. It crushes him, not badly enough to break bone but it is far too heavy for him to lift. Long term, he would be concerned about it cutting off the circulation to his lower half or it slowly constricting his breathing, but his short-term prospects are the far more pressing concern. The fact that she has been careful not to kill him can mean nothing good.

Hermione continues to advance, the flamethrower her wand is producing is barely seconds away from sweeping across the pair of them, but for all Hermione's cleverness, her drive, and her determination she is only human.

The vampire, in defiance of his hopes, leaps forward instead of back, sailing through a gap in the swirling flames, her hands grasping with an inhuman hold onto the wall and the ceiling as she bounces from one surface to next. Hermione tries to track her with her wand but her reflexes are only those of a mortal, and their attacker is superhuman. Supernatural.

As the cloud in his head subsides, allowing him to think again, he reaches to lift the massive table from himself, but it is far too heavy and he struggles to get his hands in an effective grip, the angle all wrong to bring most of his strength to bear. It's made of heavy, carved, solid wood and until tonight has barely been moved since the founders installed it. The pain of being crushed doesn't help either and, though he strains as much as he can, the thing won't budge.

Meanwhile, Hermione has pivoted on the spot following the arc of the vampire, her flames passing over the walls leaving great black marks where they lick the stone. Her attacker is swift, moving around too quickly to be hit until she judges the angle to be correct and then she strikes. Pushing herself off the wall she screams in fury and in victory as she careens into Hermione, dragging her to the floor in a tangle of limbs and robes.

One hand slaps the wand away, which flies across the room and lands just in front of Harry, the other goes to Hermione's throat to cut off her strangled cry of surprise. Pinned to the floor, Hermione struggles and scratches against the woman but she is implacable. Unassailable. Ruthless.

Harry screams in rage and in despair, desperately trying to reach her wand, his fingers slipping against the carved vine wood and grasping nothing but the cold stone floor. Stretching past his limit, practically feeling something pop or tear in his shoulder, he can feel the wood grain of her wand brush against his fingertips…

…as it rolls further from his grasp, well beyond his reach now.

The vampire holds the struggling girl down, arches her back toward the ceiling and hisses, like a cry of rage or defiance to the heavens. Hermione turns her head away from the sight as the mouth bearing those sharp, hypodermic teeth begins to descend.

Both helpless, though still struggling, her eyes lock with his, silently conveying a million messages too quick for him to parse. She opens her mouth to start to speak, but by then the teeth have already perforated her neck and those bright, inquisitive eyes turn glassy, the words dying on her lips. Her foot scrapes against the floor reflexively, struggling, but slowing with each passing second.

Very quickly she is lying there, her living but vacant stare boring into Harrys eyes.

He screams. And screams.

Not the purposeful screams of before, screams sending a message of rage or pain, these are a mindless, unthinking, automatic response. He screams himself hoarse, his vocal cords are raw when he finally stops screaming and starts crying and begging. The older woman, utterly enraptured, either ignores or doesn't hear him.

It takes longer than you would expect for a vampire to completely expunge the blood from a human.

Trapped, Harry has to watch every second. To turn and look away would be a kindness but would somehow feel like abandoning her. Denying her. He doesn't want the last thing she sees to be him refusing to look at her.

Finally, with devastatingly little fanfare, Hermione's foot stops its slow, futile scraping against the floor.

Hermione's murderer sits up, straddled across her body, and draws one nail across her own palm. A thin stripe of blood drips down, entering the divot of each line in her palm. She roughly smears it across Hermione's face, across her mouth and lips.

It is no comfort to him when Hermione's eyes flicker open again. Her pupils are fully dilated, a great big yawning expanse where once there was curiosity and kindness there is now only cruel void. She instantly begins thrashing against the woman sitting atop her, and with newfound strength she throws her up into the air and is on her feet in moments.

The other woman, apparently unphased by being tossed around like a doll, simply lands on her feet and backs off a few steps. Hermione stretches and gazes at her own hands like a new born baby might, unfamiliar with their body and testing their strength and reflexes. She growls at the other vampire, an animal declaring its territory, but then her attention is caught by Harry, whose eyes are still stinging.

He can't see clearly for the tears; his hand reaches out tentatively in despair. As if he could somehow undo the damage done by touching her. Though blurred vision he catches sight of the blood still smeared across her face and this time he does have to look away.

To have experienced such severe emotional whiplash in such a short space of time, from the joy of her company in one moment and then to this the next, being the witness to such a traumatic event, has completely robbed him of his ability to think or to care about anything other than the hole she leaves in his life.

About how the promise of her extraordinary life has been cut short. Potential never to be realised.

Instead, he tunes out both women, the intruder and the creature now inhabiting his girlfriend's body and turns in on himself. In all his adventures, all his near death scrapes he has never once been struck incapable. There was always something he could do, even if that was just try to take a basilisk with him (thank Merlin for Fawkes), but now he is practically catatonic. There are no possible actions that can bring her back as she was, and so he does nothing. The world is muted and dull, and so far away from him. It feels like it is happening to someone else.

He is unaware of her slow approach, of how the Beast inside her is driven by an insatiable need for blood so soon after turning. Unaware of her stopping just before him, looking down with unadulterated hunger.

And so, he is unaware when the situation suddenly changes again.

He is completely unaware that the other woman has suddenly fled, leaping out of one of the tower windows, and barely notices when spells begin to fly through the ruined portrait hole. He doesn't count how many Auror's and Hit Wizards enter the common room. He does, however, notice when Hermione tears one of the Aurors in half, the same as happened to Seamus. It is fast and violent and brutal; their cry of surprise cuts off as their body becomes unable to sustain it. Unable to sustain life at all.

The room is filled with the coppery smell of blood that paints the walls and the panicked sounds of the screams of the Hit Wizards. She attacks aggressively, almost mindlessly, not even stopping to consider retrieving her or the fallen Auror's wand.

One commanding voice, belonging to an older man that Harry doesn't recognise who is dressed in the robes of an Auror, cuts through the bedlam and rallies his comrades. Though physically outmatched, their numbers and superior teamwork prevent Hermione from getting any closer and hurting more of their number. She begins to grow infuriated, as she feints this way and that trying to find an opening through which to attack them. She is fresh into this world and they are a skilled and practiced team.

Eventually, worked up in a blood lust, an insane frenzy, she abandons any pretence at tactics and simply charges at them. She shrugs off bindings, bludgeoning curses, even braves flames, and for a moment looks like she will be able to breach their wall of fire. The leader, a man with close cropped hair and steely blue eyes, somehow manages to keep his cool, despite facing down a feral creature literally capable of mauling him to death. One who has already done so to a colleague. He raises his wand, takes careful aim and conjures a speeding length of wood, shaped to a point at the business end.

Whether through the sheer volume of fire, her inexperience at being a vampire, her total confidence that he would cower away from her, sheer luck, or some combination thereof his aim is true.

The stake strikes her full in the chest, the tip piercing through her back. The exposed point has shattered and splintered, likely deflected by her bones, but it was enough to hit her Achilles heel and she drops to the floor paralysed. The force of the impact knocks her off her feet, sending her backwards, and she lands on her back in a rigid heap before the Auror's. The sound she makes hitting the floor is so loud considering her slight frame.

The Auror wastes no time in celebrating and instead begins to order the others to secure the area, to bind her further, and sends people over to check on him and the other injured students. They seal the dormitories and begin to evacuate those they can save.

Somehow, though he cannot remember how, Harry ends up sitting in one of the recesses in the wall, half hidden behind a collapsed suit of armour.

The metal has turned purple and blue in the heat of Hermione's spell. There's a conjured blanket covering his knees and legs. More blankets have been respectfully draped over the bodies of the dead Auror and Seamus. Or at least as much of them as they can cover with a blanket. He closes his eyes and looks away from the scene, retching. People aren't meant to be opened up like that.

No such respect is afforded to Hermione. He can see her eyes flickering in rage from where he is sitting, sick to his stomach but too drained to process. Dimly he acknowledges he is probably experiencing shock but can't bring himself to do anything about it. All he seems to be capable of is sobbing.

"Thewlis!" a saccharine voice calls coming through the portrait, "where is he? I need to-"

One of the Hit Witch's rushes over to her and Harry peeks around the corner. Anything is better than looking at the rictus of anger and hunger on Hermione's face.

Though it is a close thing.

The newcomer is a short, squat woman. She is dressed in a shade of pink that would normally be lurid, but he has seen enough bright red blood this evening that it seems dull in comparison. Her appearance is oddly toad like, and entirely in keeping with the wide, tight smile plastered across her face. It doesn't reach her eyes though, eyes that Harry notices do not even show an inkling of surprise at the carnage in front of her. Not even an ounce of pity. At best slight nausea, but certainly not sympathy.

The Hit Witch bends to speak quietly into her ear, but she holds a hand up to block her approach, before loudly demanding "Where in Merlin's name is she, Foster? What happened?" Despite being clearly annoyed her wide smile doesn't disappear, it only grows tighter. It's clear that neither of them are aware he is tucked inside the alcove.

"Don't know Madam Undersecretary. Seems Fairfax ran into a fourth year Astronomy class on their way to the tower. Most of them didn't make it. Fairfax bolted as soon as she saw us. Auror Dawlish joined us with some of the additional Hit Wizards," she says, with an inflection in her voice that Harry doesn't understand. It almost sounds like she's unhappy that Dawlish was there. Assuming him to be the older Auror he saw during the fight, if anything it seemed like they were lucky he was there to hold them together. "He argued with Thewlis in the Entrance Hall before he demanded we engage. It won't have escaped his notice that Jones and Heston were already here."

"I see," she said slowly, sounded deeply unhappy, "why is Thewlis not telling me himself?"

The Hit Witch looked carefully at the body beneath the sheet.

"Ah," she said lightly, as if it was a minor inconvenience and not the death of a person. Someone who presumably had family, had hobbies, and ambitions. She looked thoughtful, and somehow smug, "Unfortunate. Though … I'm sure Auror Dawlish has better things to be doing. I think perhaps Auror Savage should handle this case. I will be sure to mention it to Bones and Kingsley. No doubt the Minister will agree with me." The Hit Witch simply nodded.

"Fairfax will need to be found. We can't have her … on the loose. Free to do and speak as she pleases." Her cadence carried hidden meaning, that much was plain to Harry even in his current state. The Hit Witch stiffened but muttered in agreement. It wasn't much of a leap to assume this Fairfax knew something the newcomer didn't want sharing around.

"More importantly, where is the other creature? He must face justice." Her mouth twisted in disgust as she considered vampires, and the tone of voice didn't suggest she had justice on her mind.

Foster shifted awkwardly and cleared her throat, "She, Ma'am."

"What?" She hissed, low and dangerous.

She gestured to the paralysed Hermione. The Undersecretary spared barely a glance for her, "And the boy?"

"Alive. Dawlish had someone look him over. He's probably gone to the Healers by now."

Clearly unhappy the woman scowled in Foster's direction before speaking again, this time quieter than before. "No matter, he was never that significant. Dumbledore is finished after this. Children murdered, in his school, under his watch … Criminally negligent, wouldn't you say, Foster?"

"Yes Ma'am."

"Yes … no need to arrest him just yet. We'll wait until tomorrow. It needs to be loud and public." She somehow spat her words while still talking in that high pitched, overly sweet tone, "After all the electorate will want to see justice served."

Harry shrunk back into his hiding spot; he was probably not supposed to overhear that. He felt ... empty, where in the past he might have felt some loyal rage. Rationally, she had a point. Dumbledore was entrusted with the safety of the student body and although Harry had no idea how many were dead, even one was too many. It wasn't Dumbledore's fault, but …this is a school. She should have been safe here.

Even still, their discussion of Dumbledore was transparent to him. Minister Fudge had become deeply unpopular, people were whispering that he should be removed and someone else brought in. Dumbledore's name was often the suggested replacement, even though he repeatedly denied any interest in the job. It was clear this was a golden opportunity for the Ministry to side-line the headmaster and remove a convenient obstacle. No doubt they were working on a way to spin it in their favour already.

He didn't miss that this woman had seemingly known the name of Hermione's killer and had apparently been expecting a second vampire. While all that could possibly have been known through a good situation briefing, her expectation the second vampire would be male was … peculiar.

A wild suspicion occurred to him. It was almost too farfetched to credit that these two might have known about the attacker before her rampage. It was the kind of suspicion he would expect Luna to voice. More like one of her mad conspiracy theories than anything real. Senior Ministry personnel in league with vampire murderer. Regardless of how outlandish it might be, it was something that he couldn't bring himself to fully dismiss. He also couldn't prove anything. And there was certainly nothing he could do in his injured and exhausted state. He curled his hand into a fist, the nails biting deep enough into his palms to draw blood to keep himself distracted from doing something unwise.

He would have preferred to rage, to shout, and to curse. Ideally, if he was right about this pair, curse them with something nasty and painful. But that would have been premature and stupid. If Hermione was no longer able to advocate for herself then he would have to do it for her. And she would want it done properly. Evidence first, revenge later.

And revenge it would be, because though Hermione was normally a beacon of morality she certainly had a mean streak if you deserved it. If she could prove misdoing, Hermione had absolutely no qualms about meting out a little justice of her own. She was a far cry from the little girl who had once considered being expelled worse than death. Part of growing up is realising that those in authority don't always get it right, and Hermione had dealt with it the same way she always did when someone let her down. If they wouldn't do something, then she would, and she would damn well do it right.

Now devoid of any other wants of his own, that was as good a purpose as any to pick up and carry.

"What of the girl?" Foster asked, their voices receding as they walked away the shattered remains of the portrait exit.

"Who? Oh, her. Take her outside. Let her enjoy a last sunrise." He boiled, listening to her smug, conceited tone. Hermione was turned and here was this bitch making a joke? As if the worst thing to have happened to Harry since his parents' death was a laughing matter.

Hermione, as he knew her, was gone and yet he dragged himself to his feet. Perhaps it was the way the pair of them had dismissed Hermione completely. Their utter disregard for her entire existence.

Perhaps he would have stood to defend her, regardless. Knowing that Hermione was gone wasn't the same as feeling it. When he looked at her, lying there, it was hard to believe. Hard to separate the woman he knew from the dangerous predator she apparently now was.

He had barely climbed to his feet before a heavy hand rested on his shoulder. Turning his head, he was confronted by the uncompromising blue eyes of the man he assumed to be Auror Dawlish. "Best not to," he said quietly, "interfering with a Hit Witch and the Undersecretary to the Minister isn't a good idea." Harry didn't know where he had come from – he had thought he had been hidden while the other pair talked, but it seemed Dawlish had not only been better concealed but had also spotted Harry.

His face was still wet from all the tears earlier, so what were a few more? His cheeks were red and his eyes stung. The strong arm held him in place, it's weight much greater than Harry would have expected from looking at the man. It was more than enough to root him in place, despite his desperate desire for action. The restraint was insistent, but not harsh. "They're going to kill her."

The older man stood rigid, no nervous shifting, just the steady rhythm of his breathing. "And legally, they have every right to. Vampires which are caught feeding on unwilling humans, or committing any number of crimes, including murder, can be executed without trial."

There is a pause, as Dawlish slowly nods in the direction Foster and the Undersecretary have gone, "That was one of Umbridge's laws."

He could feel himself inflating with poisonous anger, still too exhausted and traumatised to have sorted out exactly who was most deserving of his ire – Fairfax, Umbridge, Hermione, Dawlish, Dumbledore, himself? The list was as endless as his rage was bottomless, but without direction all it did was make him feel restless, animated, and desperate for a way to vent it. "But she-"

"She killed Auror Thewlis in front of half a dozen witnesses." Harry might have expected some softness in being dealt with, but Dawlish apparently didn't have any in him. It wasn't that he was intentionally cruel, he simply stated facts. His only attempt at comfort wasn't especially effective, "It's almost certainly kinder for her this way. Less suffering in the long run. You should let her go."

Dawlish ducked into the recess with him as Foster returned, and got busy levitating Hermione, directing her paralysed form to float away and out of sight. Harry anxiously watched her go, conflicted. Dimly he had been slightly panicked by the emptiness he had felt just minutes ago, as he sat waiting to die, but somehow them taking her away made it seem real in a way that it hadn't before. Now, he was seething, his thoughts consumed with violent thoughts – with wreaking bloody vengeance on Fairfax (whoever she turned out to be), of punishing Umbridge and Foster (and Fudge?) for their plotting and opportunism, of hurting Dawlish and Dumbledore despite their well-meaning attitudes, of just hurting himself for his failure or even just to try and make the rage disappear …

With his anger came strength, but also a disturbing brittleness. He was powered by that rage, but it also undermined him somehow, left him feeling oddly fragile despite its empowering effect on his drive and focus.

He wanted to follow them, to follow her, but Dawlish kept his grip. Following her, staying with her, seemed like the only thing left that he could do. And just like that, by properly acknowledging his powerlessness, the fact she wasn't coming back began to break through to him.

"That woman knows the vampire's name. And I think she was expecting to find me turned into a monster, not ... not Hermione." Harry managed to spit out, through ground teeth. He somehow managed to keep his voice low, supressing the urge to lift his arm and point in the direction Umbridge had gone.

"Yes. I heard that too." Dawlish looked at him, appraising him. His short, cropped hair was just starting to lose its colour, going grey, making the flecks of his colleague's blood in it stand out all the more. "What do you think about that?"

Harry looked at him carefully, the part of him that looked out for itself was urging caution, that it wouldn't be sensible to say too much, but the greater part of him didn't give a shit anymore. Short of murdering Ron too, there wasn't anything left that the world could take from him. "I think that's suspicious."

There was the ghost of a smile, there for a second, and then gone beneath Dawlish's impassive front. "You do, do you?" The hand gripping his shoulder squeezed slightly, "As it happens, I agree with you." Hermione had long since disappeared from his view, and so it seemed that Dawlish was willing to release him now.

"Let's get you to the hospital wing. The healers should check you over, make sure that table didn't do any lasting damage." They walked quietly, only pausing for Dawlish to charm the mess away from their shoes so as not to leave bloody footprints through the castle.

Dawlish eventually broke the silence, "Dumbledore is on his way back to the castle. There will be an investigation, and he will almost certainly be tried for negligence."

Harry scowled, "They're setting him up."

"Despite how it might look to us we have no actual proof of that," Dawlish replied quietly. "And even if it was true … Dumbledore is still responsible for the safety of the people behind these walls. With all her protections a vampire should not be able to gain entry and attack the students like this. There's no excuse for negligence. And unfortunately there's no law that says Umbridge and Fudge can't profit from it politically. It's … tactless, vile even, but hardly illegal."

Harry wasn't entirely convinced that applied when the second-most powerful person in country was conspiring against you. The question was, how far did Umbridge, Foster and the newly deceased Thewlis's complicity go? Was Fudge aware of it? Or even directing it?

Were they just taking advantage of the situation? Or, as he darkly suspected, did their involvement run deeper?

Dawlish was right about one thing, he needed evidence.

"It shouldn't be this way," he muttered, his fingers itching. He wanted to punch something, blow something up, he wanted to push himself to that point where exertion becomes exhaustion, and then finally exhaustion becomes pain, all to try and wash his all-encompassing fury away.

"Then change things." Dawlish said, simply.

Harry laughed bitterly, "Yeah, right …"

"I'm serious." Their pair of them stopped in front of the door to the hospital wing, which was eerily quiet. "You might think you're powerless, and maybe you're right. For now." Those piercing blue eyes fixed him again, "But you don't always have to be that way. If you see wrongdoing or injustice, then put yourself into a position where you can fight it. If you don't like the rules then get them changed. If you think there is injustice, or culpability, or conspiracy, then put yourself in a place to root it out."

Harry turned away from his gaze, the intensity of that look was too much for him to handle right now.

"Think about it," Dawlish says, as he pushed open the Hospital Wing door.

The scene inside would have been ridiculous if it hadn't been so awful, its grieving occupants and harassed healers all acting in perfect silence.

's had clearly responded to the emergency, as the room was filled with unfamiliar healers. Madam Pomfrey was there, liaising, but he had never seen her relinquish command of the hospital wing before. That was disconcerting enough as it was, but the real thing that struck him wasn't the rows and rows of beds filled with injured and traumatised children, it was the silence in which it was done in.

Healers had drawn curtains around many of the beds to treat the injured in privacy, other kids had almost certainly been sedated judging by the bottles of dreamless sleep potion by their bedside. Others still were sat together on the hospital beds, clutching each other as they cried. Each bay was probably charmed to be silent to those outside, both for privacy and to avoid waking the sleeping kids.

That's all they were. Kids. They seemed to be disproportionately Gryffindors, though clearly some of the Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw astronomy class she had run into earlier were here too. Not enough of them though, not nearly enough for a full class by a long shot.

And Merlin, these were the survivors. He tried very hard not to think about where the remains of the others might have been taken.

Technically, he supposed that counted him as well. Survivor. Although it didn't feel much like it. His body was injured, though miraculously nothing much beyond scrapes, bruises and whatever damage his did to his own shoulder … and all the same he walked into the bustling hospital wing feeling very much like a ghost. Or, maybe more accurately, an angry, vengeful poltergeist.

Dawlish had a quick word with one of the healers, who bustled off to read a bed. He returned to Harry and studied him with those grey-blue eyes. Shifting uncomfortably under his sight, he wasn't sure what, if anything, to say. In a way he knows he should be thankful, because without Dawlish he would almost certainly be dead. He just can't get the image of him conjuring the stake from his mind, and the gratitude dies on his lips.

The Auror removes a holly wand from his overcoat pocket, which he offers to him, handle first. "We found it during out sweep of the scene … normally we would seize it as evidence, but I've gone ahead and checked it already, so I can give it back to you." Harry looks at it blankly, aware that he should be feeling the surge of warmth he usually associates with his wand but this time there's nothing. He doesn't even reach up to grasp it.

Dawlish awkwardly continues, drawing the wand back seeing his hesitation, "I've done the paperwork, so it's perfectly okay to have it. Sometimes it helps. Let's you feel a little bit like you've taken control back…" With the young boy still not making any move to take it back, he pulls a slip of paper from his own pocket and wraps it around the wand. "Your copy of the receipt."

There is another pause, before he uncomfortably murmurs "I understand you were close. For what it's worth, I'm sorry."

What can he say to that? What could he possibly say to convey the depths of the grief he is feeling? Let alone to a man who Harry feels partially complicit, even if Dawlish was ultimately saving lives. By now a Healer has come over to hover, awkwardly, at his shoulder.

Dawlish tucks the wand into the pocket of Harry's ripped robes, before nodding carefully to him and leaving him to be poked and prodded and charmed and potioned. The Healer herded him into a bed, in which he sat dispassionately observing them. A witch came over to him and tried to make polite, soothing conversation with him but he wasn't interested. Couldn't find the suddenly monumental, gargantuan effort he would need to produce to respond without snapping at her.

Instead, he looked at her blankly while she ran the tip of her wand over his wounds, sealing them up. He barely reacted to the spike of pain associated with the healing.

In the wake of her wand, his skin was pink and fresh and sensitive.

She made some notes on a clipboard, which she hung on the end of the bed. He imagined they probably had something to do with his noncommunicative attitude. Something to do with the way he stared at the wall, not really seeing it. Not really seeing anything.

Time ticked forward, in defiance of what should have been world stopping events. The night wore on and the healers appeared to have triaged and tended to the worst of the injured and had now moved into calming and monitoring the kids.

A wizard came round with a Dreamless Sleep potion and handed it to Harry. He smiled kindly, but the best Harry could manage in response was a nod. He looked down at the small bottle, mute, and read the label. The printed warnings were many and varied, but none of them seemed appropriate to the struggle he was experiencing.

She was gone. He forced himself to stop thinking in euphemisms … She was dead. Someone or something still lived on inside her, after a fashion, but could it be said to be her? He had studied vampires in DADA, of course, but none of those lessons had really focused on what it was to be a vampire … they had spoken endlessly about their strengths and weaknesses, about how they preyed on people, but they had never stopped to consider what one was. Or who one was.

She was dead. But what is she wasn't at the same time. Something had woken up in her … and now they were going to execute whatever or whoever that was, and if he just sat here then he would never even know. He had seen what she had done to Thewlis, so the chances that there was much of the woman he loved left in there were slim… but maybe not zero.

Which left him with a binary choice. To drink the potion, to slip into the arms of Morpheus, and to exist no more until the morning, by which time she would truly and irrevocably be dead, burnt up at the approach of the sun. Nothing left but so much ash, smoking in the dawn light. There was an attraction in the oblivion of sleep, of letting things be someone else's problem for a change … an attraction in running and hiding from his feelings and from reality.

Or … he could reject it. Harry wasn't an idiot, he knew there was no happy ending waiting for him down there, but could he leave Hermione to face that alone? He had failed her at the moment of her greatest need, could he fail her again now? Even if she was nothing but a monster now, could he live with himself if he left her to face a final end on her own?

A weak, thin feeling ran through him at the thought of her out there alone. It was the first thing, other than anger and anguish, that he can remember feeling since she was taken away from him. He imagined how scared she must be … immobilised, forced to wait for the inevitable spin of the planet to kill her.

That she might see the line of the oncoming dawn approach her, as the sun crested the hill.

That she would have to do that awake and alone.

Quietly, he put the bottle down on the bed side cabinet. Even being gentle, to him the sound it made was deafening. A choice made, then.

None of the healers appeared to tell him to take the potion. Though it was obvious they had noticed, the only thing they did was make more infuriating notes on his chart. He holds his acid tongue, because these people are doing their best, and doing their jobs. It isn't their fault. And because the more reasons he gives them for concern the harder it will be for him to slip away from their tender care.

It is at least another hour before the last of the kids has taken their Dreamless Sleep. Some of them had refused it, like he had, perhaps out of some affected bravado, too proud to take their medicine. Or maybe even sleep of the dreamless kind was too much for them. Was closing their eyes, even protected from the psychosis of their own minds, too much for them? Did they feel too vulnerable, even now?

Harry thinks he can understand that.

Eventually though even the most recalcitrant fall asleep naturally or are coaxed into drinking the stuff. At that point many of the Healers left, no doubt needed elsewhere, but a skeleton crew stick around to aid Madam Pomfrey. He suspects that many of them will come back by the morning, because though the superficial injures have been dealt with there certainly be many traumatised children who will need careful attention.

Waiting until they huddle in the Nurse's office to partake in a well-deserved coffee break, he stuffs pillows underneath his blankets before quickly and quietly steals from the ward. He only looks back briefly, as a twitch of his wand closes the curtains around his bed. With any luck it will be some time before they notice him missing. If they do at all.

It is very late now, and the castle's halls reflect that. There are no travellers but him at this hour. He would check his watch, but it appeared to have been broken sometime during the struggle. He doesn't remember when, only knows that the glass and face weren't smashed the last time he looked at it, but now they are. At a guess, it must be 3 or 4am. His only companions are the disapproving mutterings of the portraits and the constant splash of moonlight through the great windows.

He descends the staircases, using all the secret passageways he knows about, and quickly reaches the great Entrance Hall. Hearing voices, he tucks himself into a recess for the second time tonight, hiding himself behind a particularly stout suit of armour.

"It seems likely," Headmaster Dumbledore always sounded old, but now he sounded positively ancient, "that come the morning, Minerva, you will been in charge of these august halls."

"Surely not, Albus. You weren't even in the country this evening; how can they blame you?" Harry had never heard the brittle quality to her voice before, his head of house usually sounded confident and authoritative, but now she seemed lost and unsure. Professor McGonagall was the very model of stability and resolve, and it felt almost perverse to hear her sounding vulnerable. "If you're culpable then surely so am I."

He peered around the armour and saw Dumbledore with his hand on McGonagall's shoulder. "You are not to blame, not for a second. And if I am to blame, it is for believing too much in the goodness of others. What happened tonight is a great tragedy… one I will not forgive myself for. But it did not happen because we didn't defend this school. No, the Ministry need their scapegoat, and it seems I shall be their sacrificial lamb."

"Filius and I were ready to storm up there ourselves, even Severus was willing, but Auror Thewlis… We should have done more. Should have ignored him. I mean, you trust them to know what they're doing but … If anything, they're the ones who were negligent. All that time they wasted arguing down here. I don't … I don't know if the school can recover. To tell the truth, I don't know that I can set foot in a classroom again without seeing their little faces…"

"You will have to, somehow, because the remaining children will need you. They will need normalcy, they will need comfort and guidance, and I can think of no one better to provide it for them. Take care of her for me, Minerva. She has been so very good to me, as I trust she will be to you, and it is among the greatest of my regrets to be leaving like this." There was a long pause, after which the melancholy in his voice was gone, and replaced with false humour, "I had rather intended to be leaving in a coffin many years from now, but better this than in handcuffs."

McGonagall scoffed, "And where will you go? What will you do?"

"Albania first, I think. I should have gone a long time ago, but there was always something else to do first."

"Are you leaving right away?"

"No, I have some things to attend to, and then I should go the hospital wing. I will wait for them to come in the morning, as I imagine they will, and then decline to go with them. Slinking off in the middle of the night wouldn't be right."

McGonagall bids him goodnight, and Harry shrinks back behind the armour as she passes. He gets just glimpse of her, in her long dressing gown with a handkerchief pressed to her face, as she goes. Dumbledore stands in the Entrance Hall, waiting for her to go.

Once she is out of earshot, he calmly says "You can come out now, Harry."

Stepping out from his hiding spot, he approaches the old wizard. "How did you know I was there, Sir?"

Dumbledore smiles at him, his eyes showing a little of that familiar twinkle, though his tone is still sad. "Oh, I had no idea. But since I sent you your father's cloak and found you in front of the Mirror of Erised in your first year I've taken to saying that in apparently empty rooms from time to time. While I'm delighted that it's finally worked, I wish it were under better circumstances."

His throat was suddenly thick, and it was a struggle to speak, "Hermione … she-"

"I know," he says, soothingly, "I'm so sorry Harry."

Overcome, Harry reaches out to him, desperate for comfort, except the one person he could normally count on to deliver it is now the source of his pain. Dumbledore does not push him away, but he doesn't exactly react either, apparently stunned. Harry holds onto him and heaves a series of great big sobs. Somehow, having the aged wizard in his arms makes it worse – he is so much smaller and more fragile than Harry had anticipated. He has to let go, worried that if he puts anymore of his weight onto Dumbledore they will both topple to the floor.

Pulling back, he mutters apologies, which Dumbledore waves off. They stand for a minute, while Harry composes himself. "Though it has been a great privilege to have existed for so long as I have and seen and experienced so much, with every year I come to understand Nicholas more, for I have lost a great number of wonderful people along the way. So, I hope you can believe me when I say I understand at least a little of your pain."

Harry scowls, wiping at his eyes furiously.

"In times like these, I am often reminded of the sayings of two great individuals. 'Life is made up of meetings and partings; that is the way of it.' And 'The pain of parting is nothing to the joy of meeting again.' Death, I am confident in saying, is not the end, simply the beginning of something new. In the fullness of time we will be reunited with those we care for."

It does very little for Harry, though he understands what he is being told, because she is only technically dead. If Dumbledore is even right, if she lives an immortal life will they be parted even in the beyond? He discards that line of thought immediately, because it is both depressing and frightening – that he might feel strongly enough to want to spend an eternity with anyone is inherently scary, and it is a door he closes with great haste. Being only 17, and recently bereaved, he definitely does not have the capability to confront that particular thought.

Despite his scepticism, and partially to distract from examining his own feelings, he curiously asks, "Who said that?"

The full twinkle had returned to his eyes, his manner a little more like his old, jovial self, Dumbledore replies "I believe it was Charles Dickens and Kermit the frog." Harry stared back at him. Even after seven years, he had never gotten used to Dumbledore saying his frankly insane nonsense.

"I feel I should ask, as your Headmaster, what you are up to so late and out of bed? Out of your rest bed too, I should add."

Harry pauses, "Except you won't be Headmaster for much longer, will you?"

"No," he sighs, and turns to look out the great open doors, "I believe not. I'm afraid I have been rather outmanoeuvred by Minister Fudge." He turns back to Harry and fixes him with a piercing gaze, "I am sure it has not escaped your notice that this happened on one of the few evenings in the school year that I am not in the castle."

"Yeah," he says, his mind turning over the implications, "and I also overheard the Undersecretary, Umbridge I think her name is, say some odd things… I got the impression she didn't like it that Dawlish was here. Plus, she got here awfully quick."

Dumbledore nodded, "I would be very careful of Dolores Umbridge. She is a … vigorous traditionalist. And she has been a very ambitious one at that. She has irrevocably hitched herself to Minister Fudge, and like any animal backed into a corner may act desperately. I should also caution you about John Dawlish. He is a great believer in the law, but do not mistake him for an ally. If he should catch you breaking the law he will not be so forgiving as this old man is when he catches you out of bounds after curfew. I notice you didn't answer my original question."

It takes him a moment to decide if he wants to tell the truth or not, but in the end the twinkle wins out, as it almost always does. "I was going to go find her. She-" he has to force his mouth to open and close, every syllable is hard work, "she shouldn't be alone."

Dumbledore looks down and out of the great doors again, quiet.

"No," he says softly, "She shouldn't. I tried speaking to them earlier, but they refused to let me see her." Harry stands there, just looking at Dumbledore, expecting him to say something further.

"Sir?" He prompts.

"Oh dear," he smiles at Harry fondly, "I'm afraid you're rather going to make a liar out of me, Harry. Poor Minerva. Still, now that the option is in front of me, I rather think this is exactly how I would prefer to leave. Better to leave in performing an act of kindness. If only that could be my legacy… still, this will have to suffice."

"I don't understand."

Dumbledore chuckles, "It is not important, in the grand scheme of things. Stay here, inside the doors. I will go and speak with the Aurors, though I am not exactly hopeful they will see things our way. If they cannot be persuaded, allow me to handle things. You'll know what to do after that. I counsel you to be cautious though, Harry. Even immobilised a vampire is nothing to trifle with. You will need to be on your guard."

Dumbledore is already striding towards the doors, Harry tagging along in his wake, still not completely up to speed. Suddenly, Dumbledore stops and Harry nearly walks into him. Turing to speak to him, there is a softness and a fondness to his words that once upon a time Harry would have given anything to hear. Now, however, they were cold comfort. Barely even a consolation prize.

"You never fail to impress me, you know, Harry. You're capable of great things, I think. Miss. Granger saw it in you too, I am sure." He hesitates, as if thinking about saying more, but ultimately thinks better of it.

Harry watches him go, his shadow cast long down the lawn by the lights of the castle. In the distance he can see a group of men and women standing around, just close enough that he can recognise several of the Hit Wizards from earlier. There is a man in a tan overcoat, marking him as an Auror. His back is turned, but Harry is almost certain it's Dawlish. They are stood spread out around a dark shape on the grassy floor.

One of the wizards peels off from the group to approach Dumbledore. Though he can barely hear it, there is clearly a heated exchange. The Hit Wizard begins to shout and gesticulate, but Dumbledore is calm. From experience, Harry knows what it is like to vent at the Headmaster and to receive nothing but placid, well-meaning advice in response. He often found it more infuriating than whatever he was upset about in the first place.

When the older man plainly refuses to turn around, the Hit Wizard calls in for back up. At this point Dumbledore does halt his advance but does stand his ground. Harry grips the edge of the door with his hand, aware that if he hadn't run into Dumbledore his mission would have probably ended here.

Or out there, stunned by Dawlish or a Hit Wizard, for trying to get too close.

He can hear the raised voices loudly insisting that Dumbledore return to the castle. Dawlish and Dumbledore are the only two who appear to be keeping their composure. Dawlish is largely managing to keep the Hit Wizards in check but it's clear that his authority is slipping as they get more and more animated. He can't really tell from this distance, more convincing himself than knowing for sure, but he's almost certain that Foster's voice is among the loudest. Egging them on, perhaps?

Dumbledore holds his hands out in front of him, Dawlish raising one hand to motion him to stop, and takes a step forward. Instantly, one of the Hit Wizards has struck out at him with a curse. Too fast to see, Dumbledore's wand is in his hand and a shield charm flares into life against the dark backdrop of the night. It defects the curse, its errant ray blazing off into the darkness.

Harry expects a second of calm, as the Hit Wizards process the premature fire and its immaculate rebound or at least a moment of reflection as they understand the gravity of the situation has changed, but there isn't one. Instead everything lights up in a strobing explosion of light, of sound, of ice, and of fire. Dumbledore is no slouch either, though his style is less offensive. The environment twists and bends to his will, the earth rising to block a blasting curse or animate roots grasping up to clutch and slow his assailants.

The fighting is fierce, but the old headmaster is more than a match for them. One old man easily out wits and out guns seven of the Ministries' elite armed combatants. He toys with them, as he makes a retreat down the grounds and away from the castle, never attacking them outright but very clearly engaging them. He resists and embarrasses them, making a mockery of their performance.

He must strain to hear, but he thinks he can hear Dumbledore chastising and grading their performances. It occurs to Harry that they are all more than likely his former pupils. Even Dawlish, whom Harry had privately found impressive before, was nothing in comparison. He managed to avoid being tripped or played with for the most part, but nothing he tried could get through Dumbledore's defences.

With a complicated gesture the ground ripples and surges underneath Dumbledore's feet and it bears him forward at great speed towards the Forbidden Forest, the turf and mud spilling out behind him in a great jet, as if he were a much younger man surfing on placid waves. The others sprint to follow him and, sensing that this was what Dumbledore expected all along, Harry begins to move through the doors.

To his great surprise, a tiny Dawlish in the distance turns around to look back at the castle. Harry freezes, hoping that he isn't silhouetted against the open doorway. The moment seems to go on forever, with Dawlish staring up at him intensely and Harry desperately trying to stay still, assuming that movement would be more suspicious than staying still.

He is saved again by Dumbledore as Dawlish is forced to turn his attention back to the older wizard when the branches of the trees begin to swipe at him. The fight moves beyond the tree line, with only the flashing lights of their spells visible.

Then even those are gone, occluded by the dense coppice of trees.

Letting out a depth breath he begins to walk.

The night air is crisp and cool and is a welcome change from the stifling castle interior. He hadn't realised how claustrophobic its walls felt until he stepped outside, how oppressive it had felt sat in the hospital wing. Now he can breathe properly, he doesn't know how he didn't notice he was practically suffocating back there.

The relief is only momentary as her diminutive form gets bigger in his vision as he approaches her. Even if pressed, he couldn't begin to express the way he was feeling. Right now, his rage was strongest against Fairfax, but it waxed and waned, ebbed and flowed, and in a minute, he might be deep into self-loathing, unfairly blaming Hermione, or despising the many and varied authority figures who had failed them both.

His pace slows. They have laid her out on the grass, facing upwards towards the sky.

The wooden stake rises from her chest and casts a long shadow in the dim castle light.

He had half expected to find her dumped, unceremoniously. Perhaps Foster had done that to start with, and Dawlish had made her arrange Hermione more respectfully. Or not. He had no way to know, but it perfectly fit his spiteful mental image of Foster.

Her clothing is damp from the dew of the approaching morning that is rapidly turning to frost. Even in the low light he can still see the blood spread across her delicate face, disfigured as it is by her paralysed look of inhuman anger.

The anger that had been sustaining him is finally stretched too far, too thin. He tries to keep a hold of it, to wear it like a cloak or like armour against reality, but it slips through his grasp. Receded like the tide. Still there, cached inside him, sequestered deep inside his heart, but for now just out of reach.

He drops to his knees beside her, silent. He had expected to cry more, but nothing comes now.

A part of him he despises as a traitor, an emotional 5th column, breaks. Now lacking the fortification of anger, it admits that she can never come back to him the way she was. Not just intellectually, but emotionally too. He hates himself for it, tries vainly to fight harder against the acceptance of her death, but he has already betrayed himself. Whatever hope he might have had has petered out, all used up. Almost ludicrously, he thinks about having to tell Ron. Ron will be devastated too.

He undoes his school tie and soaks it in the dew, before gently using it to wipe the blood from her face. He discards it. He will never wear it again. Ignoring her tormented face, and the dark void of her eyes, he takes her hand and clasps it tightly in his own.

He feels too big on the inside, his body threatening to turn itself inside out. He would have thought it would be his heart, but instead he feels it more in his lungs, feeling overinflated with every breath, barely in control of that most basic function of living. He grips her hand tighter, at a loss of how to say goodbye, how to express what she means to him. A little of that anger comes back, his breath hitching, as he berates himself for being unable to find the words. Find any words at all.

He sits that way for some time, just holding her hand in his.

Even though it feels like forever by the time he finds his voice, there is still an hour before the dawn will arrive. "I don't…" he says, feeling stupid talking to the air, because the monster in her clearly doesn't care.

He looks up at the sky, and that isn't any better.

He resolves to start simple, with small truths and a long exhale.

"You were always there for me, and I wish I had been a better friend. I wish I could have done more for you. I should have stood up to people more for you, even about small things, Ron included. I wish that I could do more than just hold your hand while you go … I'm sorry I couldn't save you." The words are so difficult, his throat feels like it is closing on him.

"I'm not ready for you to go. There was still so much … so much I wanted to say. So much I wanted for us to have." It is manifestly unfair that he will wake up every day to a world devoid of her. That people like Malfoy's father continue to walk and breathe, and she won't.

Hanging his head, in the smallest voice, he whispers, "I love you."

Even that feels inadequate, but he isn't a poet, he's just a sad, ruined boy who couldn't really talk about his feelings even at the best of times. It's not a muggle movie, or a book, and he lacks the ability to tell her what her friendship has meant to him. About how their brief time together had been the highlight, the sole light, of his life.

The best he can do is contort and twist his face in an effort to get the overwhelming feelings out. It would be a relief to cry, but it won't come. Instead, the tide of his rage returns, and when his scream doesn't ease the pain, he flies to his feet and gips his wand and fires curse after curse into the ground and tress. Grass, soil, and branches fly in a manic, frenzied eruption.

Eventually he subsides, surprised that no one has come to stop him. His heart is beating madly, his breath is quick, and none of it makes him feel any better.

He turns back to her, lying there undisturbed.

His attention is drawn to the stake. He is struck by the mad compulsion to tear it out.

He shakes his head, because it would be madness, but the idea doesn't leave him. If anything it is insistent, incessant … he can provide a thousand good reasons why it would be stupid to comply. He can only provide one reason to do it – if he pulls the stake, then she doesn't have to die. Some desperate little voice wants him to recognise that she is already dead, that something else is controlling her now, but it is such a small voice.

So small and so weak compared to the compulsion to remove it. Compared to the delusion that it will fix the problem, or at least give him time to fix the problem. If she doesn't die now, then maybe … maybe he can still save her in the future? How could the others all give up on her so quickly? How had he nearly done the same?

In years to come, when he looks back on it, it's obvious why it was so easy to compel him. It's because he wanted it to be true. It only took the slightest nudge for him to give in to that fantasy. What he won't admit is that maybe he understood what would happen to him if he complied and that he let it happen anyway.

Almost of its own accord, the hand holding his wand raises.

He can feel his mouth making the syllables for 'Accio'.

The stake wrenches from her chest with an awful, organic sound. It flies towards his outstretched hand, but she is faster. The world seems slow to him as she leaps to her feet, the hole in her chest already most of the way towards being healed. She is moving faster than the stake – she will hit him before the summoned, still bloody, stake will.

To his horror, he barely has enough time to register that he has been compelled, forced, into letting her go before his wand is torn from his hand the second time tonight. She discards it into the grass, impossible to see in the dark.

Despite being shorter than him, he shrinks back in fear. She smiles up at him, the extended canines uncomfortably visible, filling her mouth. She is poised and taut like a predator before it makes the killing leap.

"Run," she whispers, the words slurred, as if her mouth and the act of speaking was unfamiliar to her "or fight. It feels so much better when you struggle," and he doesn't hesitate to obey her.

There is nothing he can do to fight her, and so he turns and sprints towards the Forbidden Forest. The castle is too far away, and he doesn't want to endanger any more of the students. This was his mistake, his fault. He thinks if anyone is going to be punished, and it seems that punishment is going to be swift and brutal, let it be him. He prays to whoever is listening that no one else gets hurt because of his weakness.

And so a hundred thousand stars come to look down upon him indifferently, blinking oblivious to his frantic heart.

He comes around, still cold, struggling against an imagined pursuer on the floor of Crouch's mansion. A crowd of guests encircle him, all of them looking down in concern, murmuring to each other. They all take a quick step back, and a woman even gasps, as he sits bolt upright. His eyes run wildly around the room and his hand frenetically pats himself down in search of his wand, the flight or fight instinct still overwhelming him.

Cooper, Crouch, his bodyguard, and Hermione are all nowhere to be seen.

A/N: I found this chapter so much harder to write than the previous ones (maybe harder than the previous ones combined! Learned a lot from it though, which is valuable.) – either way, a weeks hiatus for Hogwarts Legacy and then back to schedule. Thanks for reading!