Part 5

Disclaimer: I do not own these characters. They belong to JKR. I make no money.

A/N: The penultimate part of the tale.

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I remember running from the building, out into the biting wind, without even bothering to don my cloak. My feet slipped upon the black ice on the pavement, skidding from underneath me as though they had a life of their own.

I drew my wand, pointing it forward.

After that, I remember little else. How I got to number 49 Highfield remains somewhat of a mystery. I assume I Apparated, but I cannot be sure. I was in such a state that it is surprising I did not splinch myself. You see, nothing else mattered then but finding Hermione alive.

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I rushed up the steps, taking two at a time until I reached the door. It was green with a lion’s head knocker. A very Gryffindor house, even if the owner was a Slytherin through and through.

“Alohamora,” I whispered, watching with amazement as the door opened. My hands shook as I pushed against the wood, my head filled with thoughts of Hermione.

I hadn’t expected it to open. I was expecting far more complex locking and warding charms, but from the looks of things, whoever had locked the door was in a hurry. Or wasn’t expecting to be found.

---

The hallway was dark, heavy with the scent of must and decay. Great curtains rose like mountains from either side, blocking out the moonlight that lit the world beyond the glass. I walked forward, the tops of my fingers brushing against the dusty velvet. Beneath me the floorboards creaked, the noise amplified to an almost unimaginable volume by my mind.

It was foolish of me to come alone. Of course, I knew who waited for me at the other end of the corridor, but not what. The mind is fragile, and I didn’t know just how damaged hers had become.

---

I found the door with relative ease. A light shone from beneath it, acting like a beacon in the darkness. I walked towards it, no longer caring how loud or hurried my footsteps had become. I was almost there. So close that I believed I could feel her presence. It was an encouraging point. There was no way to escape now.

My hand fumbled for the knob, but after what seemed a lifetime of trying, I managed to grasp it. I twisted it sharply to the right.

The door swung open, revealing a pair of very familiar dark brown eyes.

---

“Severus?”

I watched as Hermione, or who I assumed to be Hermione stumbled backwards, slamming her elbow hard into the desk behind her. The crack resonated through the room with a sickening echo.

Blonde hair, curled slightly at the ends, fell across her face, hiding her eyes from view – the only part that I still recognised, the only part of her countenance that still said ‘Hemione’. She looked like the secretary. A glamour, I thought. And a very complex one, at that.

“Dr. Granger, I presume,” I said, my words cold, bitter.

I watched as her face began to dissolve.

---

Slowly but surely, the Hermione I remembered began to appear in front of my eyes, her image fuzzy as the molecules that made up her skin, muscle and bone began to realign themselves. Lips, red and seemingly disconnected from the rest of her face, began to form words.

“Why are you here?”

I stuffed my hands into my pockets, the tips of my fingers brushing against my wand. She seemed calm, but I wanted to take no chances. Hermione was as devious as she was back in school, if not more so.

“Because you have been a very naughty girl.”

---

Her face reappeared with the muscles pulled back in shock. Her eyes wide, she looked back at me, not quite believing I was real. It would have been amusing to watch such a self-confident woman lost for answers had the situation been any different. Had we not been stood in a dark, dank backroom somewhere in the middle of Birmingham, facing one another as enemies rather than friends.

In the blink of an eye, her hand shot into her top pocket and removed a wand. It was hers. The one she’d said she’d lost.

“Not nearly naughty enough,” she whispered.

---

Caught unawares and not nearly quick enough to the draw, I became pinned with my back to the door, her wand at my throat. She was faster than I had expected.

“I’ll ask again,” she said, her voice low and dangerous. “Why are you here?”

She was less than a hands breadth away, and I could feel her breath, hot and damp against my cheek. She smelt of roses, the tiny ones with sweet scents. There was something else there too, but I couldn’t identify it. Something unwholesome though not unappetising. Deadly but desirable.

“Why did you murder Rebecca Dawes?”