Harry lurched forward, stepping over Fawkes toward Dumbledore.

"Finite Incantatem," he said, and when that didn't seem to help, looked back at the ring. It had caused this—it must have—and so he needed to get it out of Dumbledore's hand… ideally without touching it, or the Headmaster himself. "Relashio! No… er… Digitum Moverum."

Dumbledore's fingers spasmed around the ring without actually letting go and Harry cursed under his breath.

He cast his eyes around the room, desperate, and his eyes landed on Gryffindor's sword, resting on a stand on Dumbledore's shelf.

It'll do, Harry thought, and set his wand down on the desk so his hand was free to grab it.

Carefully—not wanting to cut Dumbledore—he slid the sword's point inside the ring, then flicked it upward.

There was more resistance than he'd been expecting; when it came loose, it went flying, hitting the opposite wall with a PING before landing silently on the carpet.

Dumbledore collapsed. Harry dropped the sword and snatched up his wand again.

Ostendere me omnia, he thought, and though he'd done that in Hogwarts before and knew to brace himself, still recoiled at the sudden magic that sprung up before his eyes.

Dumbledore's arm was wrapped in sickly grey magic that was speckled with Voldemort's familiar black, green, and silver. It was slithering up toward his shoulder like a snake, and everywhere it touched, Dumbledore's own magic—a vibrant purple dotted with silver sparks—seemed to vanish. His arm was devoid of it entirely.

Harry had no idea what to do.

But if I do nothing, he dies, Harry thought. Hermione would find help, but there was no way to know when or who.

He let his magical sight fall away and instead drew a screen, like Bill used whenever he was looking at Harry's Mark. He looked through it and his insides clenched:

There, clinging to Dumbledore's blackening skin, were runes like the ones in Harry's Mark—parseltongue runes.

No, Harry thought. No, no, no…

Harry wasn't a cursebreaker, didn't know how to trap curses or remove them. He didn't even know where to start.

But, even though they hadn't yet managed to remove the Mark, he did know at least a little bit about the parseltongue runes. He had to have a better chance of doing something against these than he would against normal runes, or against a curse that didn't use runes at all.

Maybe. Hopefully.

He raised his wand: Diffindo.

His spell sliced through the shoulder of Dumbledore's robes, and Harry gave the sleeve a hard tug to pull it off completely.

Bill's current theory for the Mark was that they'd need a mix of the exact opposing runes and of magic of that sort to unpick each individual tether point.

But this thing attacking Dumbledore was a curse, not a Mark, and while it had latched on and seemed to be—for lack of a better word—feeding off him, it wasn't anchored to him the way the Mark was to Harry… or not yet, anyway. This one was still mobile.

"Sorry," he muttered, though there was no way Dumbledore would be able to hear him. He pressed his wand to Dumbledore's shoulder and began to draw.

Inspired by the lines Madam Pomfrey had drawn on Padfoot earlier that evening, Harry traced a hasty circle around the uppermost part of Dumbledore's arm, ahead of where the curse had reached. Everywhere his wandtip touched, the skin parted—though not deeply—and blood welled up.

Early in Bill's attempts to remove the Mark, he'd had Harry, Hermione, and Ginny create simple, non-specific counter-runes—things like stop, undo, erase, cancel.

They hadn't worked on the Mark, but they were all Harry could think of now. He etched each one into Dumbledore's skin as neatly as he could, then drew another closed line above them, creating a sort of arm band. When he drew his wand away for the final time, hands shaky and sticky with blood, the lines and runes he'd drawn flashed with macabre golden light.

Please work, Harry prayed. Please, please—

The curse crept up toward the first line—

And stopped.

Harry stared at it in stunned, hopeful disbelief.

Impossibly light footsteps—from more than just two feet—made him turn in time to see a cat leap up the final stairs to Dumbledore's office and change into McGonagall.

Her eyes widened, and her nostrils flared, likely taking in the scent of blood, or perhaps she'd noticed Gryffindor's sword, discarded on the desk. She didn't smell surprised, though; she must have run into Hermione at the bottom of the stairs.

"He's been cursed," Harry said quickly. "I've trapped it, I think—" He glanced at the rough runes on Dumbledore's arm, and grimaced. "—but the curse isn't gone, it's still there. I have no idea how to—"

She drew her wand and a silvery cat burst from it:

"Headmaster's office, now," she said, and the cat disappeared in another flash of light. "Weasley," she said to Harry, by way of explanation, who nodded, relieved; by Weasley he assumed she meant Bill, who would hopefully be able to do more than Harry had. McGonagall swept over to stand opposite Harry, on the other side of Dumbledore's chair. She gave the runes and then Harry a troubled look. She waved her wand and Dumbledore's chair unfolded itself into a stretcher, which shifted around gently until the Headmaster was lying on it properly.

Harry stared at his old, pale face, and then at his arm, and the curse that was, somehow, miraculously trapped inside it.

"Regret it, yet?"

Malfoy's voice—soft though it was—made Ron jump in surprise. He dragged his eyes off the Room's mantel and the little dragon figurine sitting atop it to look at Malfoy, who was standing in the doorway to their part of the Room, looking uncharacteristically nervous.

"I'm probably as close as I've ever been," Ron said, letting out a gusty breath, "but no." Malfoy's shoulders slumped with relief. "I wish we weren't in this situation, though."

"Me too," Malfoy said quickly. "Obviously." He took a cautious step into the room and when Ron didn't protest, came to join him on the couch. He stared at his hands, seeming unable to meet Ron's eye. "Severus said to own it. Take full credit for Umbridge's success, be grateful no one's died—"

"I reckon Hermione'd pick death over expulsion if we gave her the choice," Ron said grimly. Malfoy looked exhausted and miserable, and Ron—though he wouldn't have thought it possible—felt even worse. "Sorry—"

"No," Malfoy said, "you're probably right."

They sat in silence that—for the first time in years—felt awkward. And, for the first time in years, Ron didn't know how to fix it. He didn't feel up to making a joke, and he couldn't think of anything to say to boost Malfoy's spirits that wouldn't be an obvious lie.

There could be no saying it was all right, or not a big deal. They'd messed up, and badly; they could do nothing now to change what was happening, nothing to fix it; the situation was so far out of their control that they could only wait to see where the pieces would land and go from there.

And in the meantime, Hermione was entirely at Umbridge's mercy. She was brilliantly clever, sure, but Ron wasn't sure that was going to be enough this time.

And if that was right, everything would change, and Ron wasn't ready for that. Malfoy would be all right—having helped Umbridge, he'd be protected—but Harry and Hermione would be expelled, and Ron wasn't sure what was going to happen to him. Maybe he'd get off with a string of detentions and some lost house points, but maybe he'd be expelled too.

He didn't know which would be worse; being kicked out of Hogwarts which would mean leaving Malfoy here, all alone, but getting to stay at school when he was the reason the others couldn't wouldn't feel right either.

He sighed and leaned forward, running his hands through his hair, then reared back as light—silver and misty, not orange like the fire—flooded the room.

A cat patronus had appeared, and Ron recognised it as McGonagall's. He and Malfoy shared cautious looks that became outright worried when the cat spoke with Harry's voice instead of hers:

"Ron," it said, sharply, "We need Pomfrey in Dumbledore's office now."

The cat did a little turn and faded, and Ron and Malfoy turned to look at each other again. If Ron thought he'd felt awful before, it was nothing compared to what he felt now.

"That's got to be Hermione," he said. What had Umbridge done to her that was urgent enough to have McGonagall have Harry send for him to get Madam Pomfrey there more quickly? That horrible quill she'd used on Harry? Did veritaserum have side-effects?

Malfoy looked like he was going to be sick, but reached quickly into his robes and withdrew the Map and passed it to Ron. They both stood and hurried out of their little room to stand on the walkway that overlooked the sunken training area.

"I solemnly swear that I am up to no good," Ron said, tapping it with his finger; he hadn't needed his wand for the Map for months now. He shook it open and Malfoy leaned closer, then:

"There," Malfoy said sharply, pointing.

Poppy Pomfrey was in the Hospital Wing with Sirius Black, which made sense, since Harry'd gone to visit him there during dinner, though Harry was not there now…

We need a door, Ron told the Room, there in Madam Pomfrey's office. And it needs to join in the most direct way via us here to the inside of Dumbledore's office… There. He tapped the wall on the Map, and around them, the Room started to shift; part of the training area sank further down and narrowed into a flight of stairs, while another part of it became a long, sloping tunnel. Both connected in the middle to where Ron and Malfoy were standing, by another, rather steep, flight of stairs.

Ron started down, then paused, frowning at the Map.

Harry was in Dumbledore's office with McGonagall—which made perfect sense, given the patronus—but Hermione wasn't with them; only Dumbledore was.

"Look," he said to Malfoy, and passed him the Map. His eyes flicked over it and then he shifted it over to Ron again:

"She's running," Malfoy said, and tapped the parchment with a finger; Hermione's name was moving very quickly away from Dumbledore's office and toward the Grand Staircase. "And… yes, Umbridge is in her office, still…" Malfoy said. Reluctantly, Ron pulled his eyes away from Hermione's name to see that he was right. "Probably reporting to my father, or about to, about whatever he did or didn't get out of Granger." He looked both angry and unhappy.

"You should go and see her," Ron said.

"Yes," Malfoy said, "obviously I'll have to—" He blinked. "You mean right now?"

"Hermione's not there anymore—"

"Yes, but something else is clearly going on. What if you need help?" He waved at the passage Ron had had the Room create. "What if Granger does, or Potter—"

"The longer Umbridge has on her own, the more she'll spin whatever's happened," Ron said. "We need to know what she knows, and if what she knows is big, we need you involved and taking credit. I've got the Room stuff under control." He nodded down the stairs, and Malfoy grunted. "And I reckon between us, me and Harry and Hermione and whoever else comes to help can handle whatever's happening in Dumbledore's office." If they couldn't, having Malfoy there with them wasn't likely to make a difference. "But you're the only one who can do the Umbridge part."

Malfoy frowned—though not unhappily—and nodded. He stepped toward a wall where another door had appeared:

"Wish me luck, then," he said.

"I reckon we'll need a bit of luck here too," Ron said. Malfoy's mouth twitched and then he was gone.

Eyes on the Map and Hermione's name, Ron put his back to the stretch of wall Malfoy had just disappeared through.

Intercept her, Ron told the Room, and another door appeared below.

An out-of-breath, red faced, red-eyed Hermione burst through it a moment later.

"Hospital wing," she panted. Ron, who was already running down to join her, pointed down the stairs:

"That way. Harry sent a message, and then I saw you… What's going on, are you—?"

"It's Dumbledore," she said, not slowing; Ron had to jog to keep up. "The ring—horcrux—did something."

"To Dumbledore?" Ron asked, alarmed; anything that could hurt Dumbledore had to be bad. "So you're all right? What happened with Umbridge?"

"That's a problem for later," Hermione said grimly, which didn't exactly fill Ron with confidence, but he said nothing more about it.

At the bottom of the stairs, the door into Madam Pomfrey's office opened and Sirius stumbled through, looking pale and clammy and very unwell. He didn't look at all surprised to see Ron and Hermione. Madam Pomfrey was there too, hissing and trying to pull him back.

"What's going on?" Sirius said, doing his best to shake her off one-handed; his other arm was wrapped in thick, strong smelling bandages and he was holding it close to his chest.

"Dumbledore's been attacked," Hermione said. "Maybe a curse, maybe just dark magic—"

Sirius swore.

"You've come for me, then?" Madam Pomfrey asked, and Hermione nodded fervently. "Excellent. Well, not excellent, but that does mean there's no reason for you to be up and about, Black." She gave him a rather forceful shove back into the office and flicked her wand. A bulky healing kit soared past Sirius and into her arms. "Go and lie down again, now."

"I need to—"

"You need to rest," she snapped. "With me, you'll only be in the way." She gave the staircase a wary look. "I take it this connects to where we need to be, somehow?" She'd seen Ron appear out of nowhere at the end of his third year, after escaping the Room and Wormtail. She knew it was possible, even if she didn't really know how. Ron nodded. "Let's go, then," Madam Pomfrey said, hurrying towards them. "Quickly."

As the Room had made a staircase which deposited Draco just around the corner from Umbridge's office, and he'd seen her on the Map less than a minute ago, he thought it was very odd that she didn't answer when he knocked on her door.

She could have left, he supposed, but the chance of her doing that, and getting far enough away to be entirely out of sight in the corridor, seemed unlikely.

He knocked again, more loudly this time, then leaned forward and pressed his ear to the wood, listening for her voice or any other sort of movement inside.

It was silent.

Draco tried the handle and the door clicked open.

He poked his head in and blinked in surprise at the sight of Umbridge, slumped over her desk, bow askew. She was breathing—he could see the papers under her cheek fluttering gently each time she did—but didn't respond when he cleared his throat.

Not a natural sleep, then, Draco thought. Stunned, probably. He wasn't sure how to feel about that; he thought it very likely Granger was responsible, and he doubted very much she would have Stunned Umbridge or otherwise knocked her out if things had gone well during their talk.

Draco slipped into the office, shut the door behind him, and cast a non-verbal locking charm on the door.

Why Stun her? Was Granger trying to buy time? And if so, for what? So she'd have time to warn them about what she might have told Umbridge? So she had time to get another teacher and report Umbridge for interrogating her? For some other reason?

Granger would have had a reason, Draco was sure of that much, but unfortunately she wasn't around to ask.

Umbridge, though, was… Draco wasn't about to wake her to get her version of events, lest he accidentally mess with whatever Granger was trying to achieve, but he didn't need to. What he did need to know was what had happened, and how he could use that to further himself with the Dark Lord.

He conjured curtains over the kitten plates on the walls and added an anti-eavesdropping charm for good measure, then sat down in the chair Granger must have occupied.

He pointed his wand at Umbridge's sleeping face:

"Legillimens."

Umbridge's mind was unpleasant; it was dark and quiet—because she wasn't thinking or dreaming—and it was unfamiliar, and it was also painful. At first Draco wondered if it was a type of Occlumency, this aching discomfort, but after a few more seconds of investigation, he decided that it was something else.

Umbridge's mind showed signs of very basic and—best Draco could tell—largely unsuccessful Occlumency training; he thought she'd be able to detect a mental intrusion if she was awake and the Legillimens had a heavy presence or was inexperienced. Draco—who'd spent his summer skimming through Hydrus' mind undetected, and more recent days slipping into Weasley's mind to practice defending it—was neither. Her mind also had a bit of structure to it, though it was not as clearly defined as Severus' mental dungeons or Draco's own pensieve-imitation.

It was faint, the sort of thing Draco could see better peripherally—if that was even a thing when he was in someone else's head—than he could by staring right at it. Even so, getting enough of a glimpse of it to be able to say what it was was another thing entirely.

It took several long seconds for him to realise he was looking at a dark and very hazy version of the Ministry of Magic.

Typical, he thought.

In the mind of someone like Severus—who filed every single memory more or less as they happened—or even Draco himself—who filed or hid particular things as they happened—finding a memory was no easy task. In a mind like Umbridge's which was not—best Draco could tell—anything special, recent memories took time to process, time to decide if they were worth storing or ought to be forgotten.

That meant her memories of her conversation with Granger should be close by, rather than stored deeply or obscurely.

Draco glanced around at the shadowy, indistinct shapes of buildings and began to search.

He moved through her mind as easily and insubstantially as a thread of memory would swirl through a pensieve.

Draco found his conversation with her from earlier that day, the one where he offered Weasley to her in all but name, but as he skimmed through looking for something more recent, he found it wasn't quite that:

"Well, we're quite alone now, so what did you wish to share?" Umbridge's voice asked.

Draco had replied with something about the contract binding the group, he knew he had, but that wasn't what Umbridge remembered: "Yes. Everyone's under the impression that you've kept me back to discuss jinxes with me. I'm happy to tell anyone who asks that you have no more idea than Slinkhard, but…"

Draco moved back through the memory and watched it this time, properly. It hadn't been a long conversation, but it had been a conversation, and not one Umbridge could have forgotten, but it just… wasn't there.

"... did you wish to share?" Umbridge asked again.

This time, now that he was actually paying attention to it, the memory stuttered. For a moment there was silence, a sense of nothingness, and then a little too late Draco's own voice, own face, appeared in the memory and said his piece about jinxes again.

It was as if Umbridge's mind had two connected but out of sequence parts of the conversation and was trying to put them together.

But where was the rest of it? Umbridge had heard him, had acted on what he'd told her—wrongly—by seeking out Granger, so—

She can't have, Draco thought, disbelieving. He waved that memory aside and drifted further along the line of Umbridge's memories until he found what he was looking for.

Or, rather, not what he was looking for, but an answer all the same. It was a gaping, sharp-edged hole, jarringly out of place and tender, in the place where Umbridge's memories of the last hour should have been.

She did, he thought, with equal parts amusement and incredulity. She's Obliviated her. At least he thought so. Actually removing memories—like Draco had done to Granger and Potter on the train at the beginning of last year was difficult, and required Legillimency, which, as far as he was aware, Granger was not able to use. It also didn't leave signs like this; when memories were removed, no trace of them remained, no gap, because as far as the mind was concerned, they never had been there, though usually the person knew they'd had a memory removed.

Here, there was a hole, a blank section where something had once been written but no longer was, and Umbridge's mind was stuttering over it, trying subconsciously to fill in the gaps.

It was, as solutions went, probably the best one Granger had had available to her, and also one that was far from ideal, because it seemed like Granger hadn't just removed their conversation, she'd also removed other things. At the very least, Draco guessed she'd tried to remove Eihwaz entirely, which was why Draco's conversation with Umbridge from earlier was incomplete.

The problem with that was that wiped memories weren't gone. Like graphite on paper, or chalk on a chalkboard, there could be residues left behind, imprints of what had been there before. Those memories would eventually resurface, either through an active attempt to dredge them back up, or through a verbal or visual trigger, especially if the Obliviator was inexperienced. While Granger had clearly had conviction behind her casting and that helped wipe the memories more strongly, mind magics weren't her forte and Umbridge's mind was riddled with signs of what she'd done.

Even if Umbridge didn't figure out herself what had happened and who was responsible, she would know something had happened. And on its own, that wasn't necessarily a problem, except Umbridge wasn't acting in isolation; it was only a matter of time until Father or the Minister or one of her Inquisitorial Squad asked a question about Eihwaz—a group she would have no recollection of—and she knew what the gaps in her memory related to.

Further, if Umbridge was suddenly oblivious to Eihwaz after having been so fixated on it, Draco would be expected to notice and report back to Father about it.

Presumably Granger had spilled information that it wasn't good for Umbridge to know, but having her not know anything at all was, as far as Draco could tell, just as problematic.

But where did that leave him?

He and Severus had spoken about choices just before, and this was him facing one.

One option was for Draco to just exit Umbridge's mind now, Confund the kitten plates, pretend he'd never been here, and just let things play out as they would—once Umbridge was conscious, the memory charms would either hold, or they wouldn't.

From there, there were any number of ways it could go, and he would have no control over any of them. It could turn into a win for Umbridge and the Dark Lord that he'd made happen, or it could be a win for Potter, Granger, and Eihwaz which would be a personal win for Draco, but a failure in the Dark Lord's eyes. Or it could turn into something else entirely.

No, doing nothing would be leaving far, far too much to chance.

Which meant he had to do something.

Draco found the place where Umbridge's consciousness lay, dormant, wrapped in the faint red of a Stunning spell, and reinforced it with his own Occlumency; having her wake up before he was ready would be a problem.

Then, he turned his attention back on the gaping holes in Umbridge's mind and very carefully began to unpick Granger's work.